


Swallowtail

by nervoussis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Upside Down, Billy & Will bond over trying to bake pies for Thanksgiving, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Lives, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gay Billy Hargrove, Getting Back Together, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Saying I Love You, Soft Billy Hargrove, Somebody Finally Put Billy in Therapy, Steve Harrington Loves Billy Hargrove, You know what that is? Growth.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25276039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: Billy wipes listlessly at the tears that are flowing down Steve's cheeks and kisses his forehead, his chin, his ear lobes."I'm proud of you. I'm so fucking proud of you, sweet pea." He says. Billy cocks his head to the side. "And you have sauce on your nose, asshole."Steve lets out a choked laugh, like he's been holding his breath the entire time. "Can we go to bed now?"(or) All the time's Billy wanted to say "I Love You," and the one time where, finally, he did.(COMPLETE!)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Past OMC, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 76
Kudos: 299





	1. The Ignition Cable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (from the future)  
> Hi, I don't think I ever clarified how old Billy & Steve are (Because this story has pockets); they're in their freshman year at the local community college. I meant to mention it and then I Forgot!  
> Love that for me! please enjoy.

So okay. Billy isn’t a romantic. 

Let’s get that straight right off the bat. Long walks on the beach, couple’s therapy, couple’s costumes, ugly christmas sweaters and dinners with The Parents are just not in his arsenal. 

He’s always moving, skin stretched tight over his bones, always just on the wrong side of content. 

Billy fucks and runs. That’s just what he does. 

So when he moves to Anywhere, U.S.A and Steve Harrington convinces him that, okay, maybe all that couple-y shit can be just as fun as a keg stand or running donuts in the school parking lot at three a.m, Billy kind of thinks he’s losing his mind.

Thinks he’s getting old or getting fucked or _both._ Like his youth is really slipping away, or something.

Steve convinces him that he can do the mundane. That boring, tireless shit like cooking dinner together and running those loser kids around town _every_ Saturday afternoon (mall, arcade, park, repeat) could be what he never thought it could:

Enjoyable. Billy likes his domestication, and he loves being Steve’s bitch. 

And he gets _really_ good at being a conventional boyfriend, which is surprising. 

Billy likes taking care of Steve when he’s sick. He likes picking the kid up and driving him to school. He likes their midnight veg sessions that always end with them tangled down to their sock feet, asleep on the couch. 

He kind of gets off on doing things that make Steve feel like he’s being wrapped in a warm blanket. 

And okay, after a while he even enjoys helping Mrs. Harrington wash dishes after dinner. Sometimes. 

Billy likes being Steve’s boyfriend. Sue him. 

It’s fun and it’s easy and the sex is great. For a long time Billy feels like he could get used to it; the idea of settling down someday with Steve Harrington and getting a white picket fence and 2.5 kids doesn’t seem too left-field anymore.

But then they hit their six month mark and Steve gets very serious out of nowhere. He starts doing this (horrifying) thing where his face goes soft and serious and he stops talking and just stares at Billy. 

Like he’s going to tell him he’s dying or moving away or something, and Billy gets nervous about it. 

Worries that Steve doesn’t want him anymore.

So he starts doing shitty, out of character things like buying Steve flowers and doing regular oil changes on his car. Being the perfect boyfriend and _yeah,_ he should win an award for how smoothly the Beemer is running these days.

But the thing is; Steve doesn’t really respond to the extra attention. Is maybe even a little weirded out by it because:

“You’re acting like you killed my cat, Billy. What’s going on?”

So then he’s obsessing. Thinking maybe he went a little overboard and now Steve has the Ick. 

The possibility is like a bullet in Billy’s neck.

So he starts acting like an asshole again. Just to do damage control. He thinks he can back track and fix whatever he broke in his clumsy hands.

Shit _definitely_ hits the fan after that. 

Steve starts crying a lot and saying things like:

“Billy, please just tell me what’s wrong,”

And: “You don’t have to act tough with me, I can see right through it,”

And, eventually: “I don’t have to put up with your bullshit, okay?”

So Steve throws things and says he needs space from their relationship. 

Billy starts having nightmares. Crying about it in the bathroom at school like a fucking girl because it’s only been six months and he had expected a life time with Steve.

How did he fuck it up so fast? 

Billy feels very dramatic and hormonal about the whole thing. 

But then the strangest thing happens; Steve tells Billy he loves him.

And when it happens Billy isn’t expecting it. They’re “on a break,” and he’s pouting about it, like a loser. He suspects that this is the moment Steve will dump his ass for good and he needs to appear aloof, uncaring.

He’s already in a bad mood (they haven’t spoken in days), chain smoking in his car like a loser when Steve slides into the passenger seat one rainy afternoon in November.

All serious brown eyes and, “We need to talk.”

And Billy will do anything to keep Steve in his life but his mouth has other plans. “You’re actually speaking to me?” He spits.

And Steve pretends like he doesn’t hear. “Why are you such an asshole all the time?” He sticks his hands in front of the vent to warm his fingers. “I mean, seriously. Doesn’t it get exhausting after a while?”

“I like seeing if I can ruffle those pretty feathers of yours, princess,” Billy lights a cigarette and tries to seem detached. “And you never disappoint.” 

“If you weren’t so goddamn _cute,_ Hargrove, I would have dropped your ass weeks ago.” Steve frowns but there’s a softness in his brown irises.

“You think I’m cute?” Billy can’t stop the dopey grin that spreads itself across his face like butter on warm toast. “I thought you wanted a break.” 

“Whatever, can we just. Go back to normal?” Steve tucks his hair behind his ears. He looks like a girls soccer coach or something. Billy loves him. “I’m just, like, really miserable without you, okay?”

Billy nods his head like it’s not a big deal.

“And I like. Love you, or whatever.” Steve whispers. 

And Billy tries so hard not to crush the moment in his fists. 

“Or whatever?” He tries. The air feels thick and heavy and his stomach is doing somersaults. 

“Billy.”

Their eyes meet, brown and blue clashing in the air. Steve’s are so open and soft that Billy feels like his skin is melting off the bone.

“I love you, Billy. I’m in love with you.” He says. 

“I, uh. You...are?” Billy’s voice sounds so small and lame in comparison. His cheeks flare red with embarrassment. 

“Yeah, I. Yes. So much, Billy.” He licks his lips again, clearly nervous. “Loved you so much for so long, it’s kind of pathetic.”

And Billy feels the same way. Feels his breath catch in his throat and his heart blooms like a sunflower in spring.

It’s a horrible, endless moment.

Billy looks at Steve and tries to smile. He shrugs his shoulders. It’s now or never.

“Steve,” he whispers. 

And Harrington’s eyes are huge and soft and hopeful. Billy thinks about the first time he ever saw him, how his heart had started doing the tango in his chest. 

He thinks about their first kiss. Their first fight. Waking up next to him and falling asleep in his arms. Billy is so full of love he’s bursting. 

But it’s too much. He takes a drag off his cigarette and threads their fingers together. 

“Thanks for telling me, baby.”

Steve’s smile falters for half a second and then he’s grinning, squeezing Billy’s hand between his own. “You betcha.”

And Billy loves him. Fuck. That’s the first time he wants to tell Steve the truth.

\--

The second time Billy takes a swing at “I love you,” it ends in a fight. Go figure.

He always swings too wide. It’s Saturday night and they’re having a movie marathon with Robin, Steve’s totally “platonic” best friend, and okay. 

It’s not like Billy hates her. 

He doesn’t, she’s actually pretty cool when she isn’t pining for Steve like her fucking life depends on it. And yeah, Billy has been told he can be possessive. Jealous. Standoff-ish. Rude.

But the thing is; Robin likes Steve. Anybody with eyes can see it. How she fucking twirls her hair and tickles his sides and how Steve just lets her, even though he knows Billy is jealous and kind of old school. 

But it’s fine. Billy is working on trust.

So they’re eating pizza and guzzling beer like the world is ending, which is pretty commonplace these days, and Steve gets sauce on the tip of his nose. Doesn’t even realize it’s there because he’s so enthralled by _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ and Billy considers telling him.

The red sauce makes him look like he’s been out playing in the snow for hours, it compliments the constant blush of Steve’s cheeks and it’s so cute.

Everything about Steve is so cute it hurts.

The way he points at the screen and falls back in a heap of giggles every time Matthew Broderick opens his mouth. The way Steve looks at Billy constantly to make sure he’s enjoying the movie. 

To make sure he’s having fun. 

Billy’s never had anyone care so much. He puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulls him in close, plants a kiss on his temple as Steve makes a sleepy snuffling sound. He decides to be selfish.

They settle in, warm and cozy, until the credits roll and Steve yawns. 

“You almost ready for bed?” He whispers, even though it’s only 10:30. Like they’re an old married couple who has to be up for brunch with their grandkids in the morning. The thought fills Billy with sunlight.

He nods emphatically and kisses Steve’s neck. The kid squeaks like a kitten and pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and slow and sweet. 

Robin makes a _face._

Like she’d rather be the one in Steve’s bed. Like she deserves it more than he does or something, but Billy can’t really blame her. Steve is kind of perfect.

So, Billy just smiles and kisses Steve’s neck one more time before gathering their plates and padding through the house to the kitchen. He fills the sink with suds and lets the dishes soak.

Just a little trick Mrs. Harrington taught him. He’s, like, a professional these days. 

And all professionals need a cigarette every now and again. 

It’s moments like this, after a long night of boring socialization when Billy’s nerves are shot that he’ll crack the window and smoke very discreetly in Steve’s pristine kitchen, like a ninja. 

The Harrington’s have very strict no-smoking rules ( _t_ _he wallpaper!)_ but Billy figures that only applies to live-in members, so he’s stashed a pack of reds and an ashtray inside the fancy coffee machine that no one uses. 

Like he said; ninja.

Billy’s sitting on the counter, trying very hard to aim the smoke through the opening in the glass when Robin and Steve's voices float past the branches of the lilac bush under the window. They're whispering urgently and Billy peels himself off the counter. Tries to go about washing the dishes. Tries not to eavesdrop, because he's working on trust and all that, but then he hears his name and Billy's only human.

He lights another cigarette and hops back on the counter. 

"I just don't know how much longer I can go on pretending, Steve."

"You just have to be patient," Harrington says. His words have a gentle, sugary-sweet lilt to them that makes Billy want to throw up. "These things take time, you can't rush it--"

Robin makes a noise like an angry bull. "Right, like you're the poster child for loving out loud. I mean seriously. You go around _pretending_ every day." They fall silent for a moment, the click of a lighter filling the empty space. Then; "When are you going to tell Billy?"

_Tell Billy what?_

Steve's response is so quiet that Billy has to stick his head halfway out the window to hear it. He thanks God for the lilac bush. 

"I'll tell him, I will." Billy can practically see the nervous tick Steve has, even in the dim moonlight. Feels him running his hands through his hair like it's something he can reach out and grab. "I just. Don't want to cause problems, I don't want--"

Robin makes that noise again. "Why are you pretending everything's okay, then? Don't you think he deserves to know where your head is at?"

Billy feels tears swamp his vision so suddenly that his head spins. 

He's heard enough.

Billy lights another cigarette and doesn't even try to be careful with the smoke. His heels hit the ground with a thud and he makes a big show of banging the pots around in the sink as if to announce his presence. To let them know he's been here all long, that they've been caught red-handed.

Over the clash of steel and ceramic Steve's voice is wound tight. "Fuck. Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."

 _Like hell you will,_ he thinks bitterly.

Billy's in the middle of scrubbing his plate clean for the third time when Steve tip-toes into the kitchen like the floor is on fire. 

"You're smoking in here." He says flatly, like Billy doesn't have any spatial awareness or something.

It pisses him off more than it should. He sucks the thing down to the filter and focuses on washing the dishes. Scrubbing the melted cheese in tight, violent circles, just like Mrs. Harrington taught him. He keeps his back to the room as Steve closes the distance between them.

"Leave them. Let's go to bed." He says, like nothing even _happened._

And Billy knows he's acting like a fourteen year old girl but fuck, that's what love does to him. His shoulders are scrunched all the way up to his ears as he rinses the plate and tosses it into the dishrack with too much force. 

"Can we talk?" Steve leans against the counter next to him, folds his arms across his chest.

Billy throws the second dish on top of the other one. It sounds like a million windows shattering at once.

"Thought you already talked with Robin."

"Okay, yeah. I deserve that," Steve says lightly. And that pisses Billy off even more. He goes to toss the third plate onto the rack but Steve grabs it dries the dish with care.

He nudges Billy gently out of the way and makes quick work of the rest of the dishes, scrubbing with practiced movements. Soon enough the kitchen is clean and Steve drapes the towel over his shoulder. He turns to stare at the side of Billy's face. 

"Do you want to know what we were talking about or does it even matter?" Steve asks gently.

Billy lights another cigarette and avoids his eyes. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, love, that you would rather be upset than give me the benefit of the doubt."

Steve seems to regret the words as soon as they make it out of his mouth. Billy shakes his head and pads back to the living room, lit cigarette trailing smoke all throughout the house.

"Billy--"

"Fuck off, princess. You want polite conversation maybe you should start fucking someone else, for a change." He says, even though he doesn't mean it. "I know a girl who's been dying to crawl between your legs for months. Why don't you give her a call."

"Robin?" Steve asks dumbly, "Are you talking about--"

"The one and only," Billy shoves his feet into his boots.

He knows he's being an asshole. Knows it by the way Steve hugs his arms to his chest and shuffles nervously on his feet. Knows it by the sad droop in his eyelids when Billy stands and grabs his keys off the coffee table. 

"Is that what this is about?" Steve's chin is quivering which means he's about to cry. "You think I want to...sleep with someone else?"

His voice hitches at the end and Billy knows its coming. The flushed forehead and the huffy little sounds and Billy's powerless to those fucking crocodile tears, okay? So he cranks up the attitude, just to try and fix things.

Anger has always been more comfortable than sadness.

"Not someone," He spits. "Robin."

Steve runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, just so I'm understanding. You overheard my conversation with Robin and your takeaway was...?"

And Billy _so_ doesn't have time for this. "That you want to bang. Yup, pretty simple."

They stare at each other for an excruciating moment, Billy seething like a goddamn pile of hot coals and Steve trying not to cry.

But then the strangest thing happens; Harrington starts laughing. Seriously, cracking up so hard that his throat keeps closing off in little squeaks.

And for just a moment Billy's anger gives way to surprise.

"What's so fucking funny?" He snarls, but Steve keeps cackling like a witch and Billy starts to feel like the butt of the joke.

So he marches into the hallway and up to the front door. He's about to step out into the chilly night air when a strong hand grabs him by the elbow and spins him around.

"Robin's gay, dumbass."

"I...huh?" Billy says, and Steve's got him pegged.

"She was asking me for advice about coming out because, well," Steve's eyes flick to Billy's mouth. "But I haven't um. Told anyone, about us. Except, like, Robin. So."

His mind is moving a mile a minute. Billy lets the front door close with a soft _click._

"Steve, I'm. I didn't know, I swear--"

Harrington nods furiously, hair flopping around like the neck of a rubber chicken.

It's so ridiculous that Billy almost smiles. Almost.

"It's okay, baby," Steve says shyly. He looks down at Billy with dark, serious eyes. "I should have told you. I was just embarrassed because. I mean, I know that you're not exactly _out_ out, but you're not, like, _not_? And I've never been with another, um, guy. Before. And I'm kind of nervous, to tell my parents. And, like, the chief. And _especially_ the kids, like holy shit--"

Billy cups Steve's face in his hands. "Just like you told Robin, it will happen in your own time."

Steve's eyes shine with fresh tears. "So, you're not upset with me for being afraid?"

He looks young. So open and vulnerable, and Billy hates himself for acting like a jealous asshole. For throwing a fucking temper-tantrum when he didn't even know the full story.

"No," Billy whispers. "How could I be upset at you? You're still figuring it out for yourself _and_ you're helping your friend on her journey at the same time. That's more than I could ever do and I'm just."

Billy wraps his arms around Steve's neck, pulling him close. Steve is staring at him with unfailing honesty. So soft and so utterly, completely in love in this moment that Billy feels the words on the tip of his tongue. Can taste them like they've been waiting there forever, and maybe they have.

 _I love you._ He wants to say. _I'll never love anyone like I love you._

Steve has such a big heart and fuck if Billy will ever love anyone else in his entire fucking life.

But maybe that isn't what Steve needs to hear in this moment. Billy wipes listlessly at the tears that are flowing down Steve's cheeks and kisses his forehead, his chin, his ear lobes.

"I'm proud of you. I'm so fucking _proud_ of you, sweet pea." He says. Billy cocks his head to the side. "And you have sauce on your nose, asshole."

Steve lets out a choked laugh, like he's been holding his breath the entire time. "Can we go to bed now?"

Billy nods his head and then they're hugging, chests pressed together while Steve buries his face in Billy's neck and rubs his nose on the skin beneath his ear.

Billy squawks and pushes the kid away. "You're on thin fucking ice, Harrington."

Steve smiles, like a big dope, and says. "Whatever, you love it."

And Billy thinks, _yeah. I fucking do._


	2. How Dirty Boys Get Clean

Somewhere along the way Billy decides to be gentle with himself about the whole thing. Decides to take his time with actually saying it, to let it happen naturally. 

And it’s a big deal because that’s not something Billy does.

Usually he beats himself into submission until he’s gnawing at his own leg just to feel something. Usually he pretends to be untouchable. Usually he hides behind anger or indifference. 

Billy’s conditioned himself to punch first, that’s what his therapist says.

It’s a defense mechanism, because Billy’s from a family that doesn’t say ‘I love you,’ and, while it's nothing to be inherently ashamed of, it’s so easy to let fear get in his way.

His therapist says he needs to work on that.

Clara says, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon; that growth is a choice.

And Billy wants a happy life. 

So he tries, and he wonders begrudgingly when he became one of those assholes that ends every sentence with “my therapist says.” 

But the thing is, his therapist is a badass.

Talking to her is like talking to his grandmother who smokes three packs a day and also gets high on the weekends. It’s embarrassing how quickly Billy opened up to her, like a goddamn rolley-polley. How quickly they became friends.

And that's saying something because it's difficult for Billy to open up.

They're similar that way. 

At their first meeting Clara had asked him why he decided to make the change. Those were her words, "William, why have you decided to get clean?"

And he had crossed his arms. Sucked his teeth. "I ain't a fucking addict, lady."

"First off, name's Clara." She had offered him a cigarette, lips a thin line. "There are a lot of ways people can get dirty throughout their lives. I specialize in drug addiction, sure, but that's just one method of filth. Just one way people hide from themselves."

Billy had been confused. "What do you mean?"

"Imagine that you're a clean white shirt. Visualize every time you've chosen anger, every time you've chosen isolation, as a spot of dirt on your life--"

"What the fuck are you--"

Clara held up a finger. "Bare with me. Now, imagine that you're rugged and maybe you look at the shirt after the first time you got shit all over it. Imagine that you can't get the stain out no matter how hard you try, so you think; the fucker's dirty anyway. Damage is already done. Might as well keep at it."

Clara had smiled at him. "I'm the bleach, Billy. What I teach you is going to help you get clean."

And fuck if _that_ wasn't the truth. 

When he was younger he had been assigned a therapist by the court after his mother left because of his anger issues. Because he acted up in school and terrorized the shit out of Max and that guy had been _such_ a fucking square.

Had really expected Billy to open up about his problems, his trauma, like he himself looked like he actually lived in the world, or something. 

Like Billy could trust him. That was a fucking laugh.

They had done a lot of psychological tests, like the one with the pictures, and Billy's answers had always been wrong. 

They told him he had problems with aggression. They told him he was troubled. Broken.

For a long time no one believed he could ever get better.

Clara isn't like that at all. She's been around the block a few times and Billy feels comfortable around her. 

_Imagine that you're a clean white shirt._

Billy has gotten better at refusing to choose aggression. 

So they’re settling in for their last meeting before Thanksgiving break when Billy tells her about Steve for the first time.

And, yeah, they’ve talked about him before in passing. _Steve said this_ and occasionally, _Steve and I did that,_ but never for real.

Because the thing is; Clara doesn’t know Billy’s gay.

If he’s being honest he doesn’t think it would really change her opinion of him all that much if she did know. Doctor-patient confidentiality, and all that.

But he’s still nervous to tell her. 

In his experience faggots who stray too far from the group and just outright _say it_ are easy pickings. Dead men walking.

But Billy thinks maybe she’s thought about it before. Connected the dots.

Like she's seen Steve sitting in the waiting room after every meeting, reading _Highlights_ and making conversation with Marian, the receptionist, like he always does and thought _Billy Hargrove is a faggot._

Because, honestly, how could she not think that? 

With Steve and his bubbly personality.

And his fucking crop tops.

And the way her entire staff smiles when Billy comes in for a meeting because that means Steve is here, and his Sweet Pea is like goddamn happiness _personified._

So Billy is holding her crystal paper weight between his hands, like he always does when he has something to get off his chest, and Clara puts her pen down so she can light a cigarette.

“Talk to me, kid.” She says. 

And he wants to.

But he’s nervous.

_Fuck._

Billy puts the paperweight on the table and wipes his hands on his jeans, itching for something to do. 

“Gimme a cigarette,” He says.

Clara’s from New York. And she’s in her sixties, so the more smoke there is a room the better.

Billy inhales. Takes a deep breath. _Here goes nothing._

He focuses on the spot just to the left of Clara's ear.

“I don’t know if you um, know this about me.” Billy sucks the cigarette all the way down to the filter and lets smoke trail out his nose. “I’ve been thinking about telling you for a long time. But, _shit,_ I don’t really say it out loud. Ever. Because--”

“Breathe, kiddo,” Clara rasps. “In-two-three-four.”

So he does. Billy rubs his eyes and tries again. 

“Last time we talked about, like, Personal Responsibility. And how we owe it to ourselves and the people we care about to be. Honest. No matter what. Even if it’s scary,” The room is rapidly filling with smoke, covering everything like a chemise veil and Billy feels better. Like he can breathe easy. “And being honest about. This part of myself is scary. Because I don’t, um. Always say the right thing.”

Clara nods encouragingly. “Just speak your truth, William. I’m here to listen.”

And okay. Billy can do this. "Clara, I'm worried about shit. Like, a lot of shit. Like, who I am and if people accept me and like, how to tell other people I accept them. Personal Responsibility, and all that."

She's nodding her head, puffing on her cigarette, and Billy almost faints at the sudden rush of courage in his blood. 

He crushes the butt of his smoke and leans forward, elbows to knees.

Billy starts over. “I love him. Don’t I have a personal _whatever_ to be honest with him about it?”

One thing at a _fucking_ time. Billy almost chicken's out.

Clara is silent for a minute, thoughtful. And then, softly; “We’re talking about Steve now?” 

And he doesn’t know what he was expecting. 

Maybe a little something from both extremes. He doesn’t think Clara would cry and tell him she supports him no matter what, that's not her style.

Doesn’t think she’d call in the hounds and watch as they tear him to pieces, either.

But he had expected something.

He's thought about this and, to be completely transparent, this outcome never crossed even his mind.

That Clara would just _know._ Without him having to say it.

But, Billy still feels like he has to say the words.

“Yes. Yeah, I’m. Clara: I’m gay.”

“Oh, honey,” She says, “You didn't have to prepare a speech. _Christ_ , we know each other better than that, don't we?”

He tries to stop his mind from doing cartwheels right there in Clara’s brightly lit office. Because it’s true, she probably knows him better than anyone.

Well, except Max. 

"You're not. _Mad?"_ And Billy feels like a child because fuck. He _pays_ her not to judge him.

She snorts. Really, snorts like Billy's being ridiculous.

And he is. But still.

Clara lights another cigarette and shakes her head. “So, just so I’m understanding. You’re in love with Steve and you don’t know how to tell him. That right?”

And Billy’s still reeling from how casual this entire conversation is.

Like he didn’t just drop his deepest, darkest secret right out in the open.

Like it didn’t take him months to grow a pair of balls big enough.

He’s kind of grateful. Just another day, just another conversation. That’s how it should be.

“Yeah.” Billy mumbles. “I do.”

And Clara hates that. “Honey, I’m old, you gotta speak up.” She even goes so far as to cup a hand over her ear. Asshole.

Billy grins. “Yes, I love him.”

Clara nods again. "This Personal Responsibility you were talking about. That honesty; was that for me, or for Steve or--"

"For both," Bill says. And it's hard because he's been hiding for so long. Pretending like he isn't loving and emotional and gentle, when the wind blows just right. "I care about you. Both. _Both_ of you and I just. Wanted to get it right."

He takes a deep breath. "I want it to be perfect."

“Oh honey," Clara’s eyes go soft, gentle. "Nothing ever is, but that's okay. You're you. And that's enough.”

\--

In the end, Billy stumbles out of Clara’s office with homework.

“Kiddo, at the end of the day words mean nothing. They’re just a vehicle to identify, _solidify_ what we already know to be true.”

An he’s not the best with words.

Or feelings.

His complete lack of emotional maturity is a direct result of having Neil Hargrove as a father. Of the abuse Billy has suffered for years. 

It took him a long time to call it what it is.

So, in the end Clara tasks him with _showing_ Steve that he loves him first. Through action. 

“Baby steps, William,” She says as they walk down the hallway. “You’re ass deep in un-learning all the bullshit that bastard taught you, let’s just take it slow for now.”

And Billy nods because, yeah. _Fuck_ yeah. He can show Steve how much he loves him. 

It only gets easier to visualize the words he’ll say, the emotions he feels, when they step into the waiting room to find Steve braiding Marian’s hair. 

They have their backs to the door. Steve’s fingers are lost in her curls and they’re mid conversation, Marian talking with her hands about some guy she’s seeing.

“...No, I think you’re definitely right. Guy’s an asshole,” Steve’s saying, nodding his head like it’s fucking obvious. “I think, like, _any_ cuck who scoffs at a woman drinking beer is insecure with their own masculinity.”

Steve isn’t the best braider in the world so the one on the left side is already coming apart. He makes a snuffly little noise and removes the hair tie. Starts over.

Billy almost dies right there from how cute it is.

Clara makes a noise and they both stand up like they’ve been caught playing hookie. 

“Marian I pay you to answer phones, not play dress up.” She says, but her voice is watery with fondness.

“Yes ma'am, sorry Ms. Clara,” The girl takes the hair tie from Steve and makes a bun on the top of her head. Just then the phone rings. “Bye Steve.” 

And, as she shuffles around the median to her desk, Marian looks at Billy with red cheeks. “Bye Billy,” She whispers. 

Clara rolls her eyes and says, to Billy: "Have a good holiday, kiddo."

And then, to Steve, "You be nice to my boy, alright Stevie?"

And fuck Billy _adores_ that old broad. 

The second the door closes behind them he groans. Because _here we fucking go._

Billy squawks as Steve’s hands slide up the back of his shirt, fingernails digging in and leaving thin lines down his shoulder blades.

“Ow, watch it, Harrington.” He grumbles.

Steve grins. Wide and dangerous like a shark. “Marian wants to ride you into the fucking sunset, goldilocks.”

Billy tries to frown. To drip with disapproval.

“Don’t start,” He groans, but Steve just shrugs his shoulders like _make me._

“Hey, if you opened those pretty eyes and looked around once in a while.” The kid says, voice full of sarcasm.

Like a _brat._

"How many times, baby," Billy slides behind the wheel of the Camaro and lights a cigarette, rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t have a fucking _crush_ on me. Don’t be an idiot.”

But that just makes the kid laugh harder. 

“ _Bye Billy.”_ Steve teases and okay.

Billy knows it’s not supposed to be sexy but it is. Sue him. Steve bats his long, pretty eyelashes and juts out his bottom lip and Billy puts it between his teeth.

Bites down on Steve’s pink mouth until the kid swats him away with a glare.

“Ow,” He pouts, lowering the visor to stare at himself in the mirror. Steve rubs at the skin around his mouth and says, “I hate it when you do that.”

But he’s got a hard on. Billy smirks. “Don’t lie to me, pretty boy.”

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps patting his lips, staring at himself in the mirror, brushing fingers through his hair.

He points an angry finger. “This better not bruise, asshole.”

Billy blows him a kiss and puts the Camaro in drive, tearing onto Park Street with the windows rolled down.

It’s surprisingly warm out, what with Thanksgiving being next week and all.

Reminds Billy of California.

All along the drive to Billy's apartment the houses are decorated for the holiday. Happy little turkeys dot front lawns and swing set's and while Billy isn't the _biggest_ fan of the Midwest, he fucks with how every Holiday gets the Presidential treatment.

"Oh, and hey. Mom was wondering if you and Max could bring the stuffing next week," Steve says softly, "Whole family's gonna be there."

Billy winks, "You got it baby."

This is their first holiday with each other's families. 

Billy's fucking nervous. Damn, he wants to cry just _thinking_ about it but Mrs. Harrington got him a sweater to wear to dinner, so he wouldn't miss it for the world.

They ride in silence for a while on their way to Billy’s apartment which is on the shitty side of town. No Rolls Royce's, no decorations.

But Steve doesn’t seem to mind.

All that frigid upper class shit melts away when they have their lips pressed to each other's skin and don't have to worry about volume.

Well, unless Max is home.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, Billy smoking through his pack of Reds and Steve staring out the window while _Ratt_ plays in the background.

Billy doesn’t even realize anything’s wrong until Steve asks softly; “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Like that’s even a question, or something. 

“Mrs. Harrington?" Billy's eyebrows knit together. "Always been partial to the newer model myself, but--"

"You know what I mean, asshole." Steve snaps, but there's a smile in there somewhere. "Marian. Do you think she's pretty."

And Billy's confused. "Huh?"

“It’s just. She likes you. I know she does,” Steve’s voice is tight, like a guitar string stretched thinly over its fretboard. One wrong stroke and the whole thing could snap. Suddenly he turns his head to stare at Billy, jaw set.

“Do you think she’s pretty.”

And it’s kind of funny but Billy’s never felt less like laughing.

“Steve,” He says gently, “I’m gay.”

But that doesn’t mean anything, not really. 

Billy knows plenty of guys who are equal opportunity, who will fuck anything with a pulse if they feel like they have to hide.

Hell, he used to be one of them, even when he and Steve were first starting out.

When he was still ashamed.

When he was still working through shit.

“Answer the question.” Steve says.

And his voice is soft, firm. Like it gets when he wants to be obeyed.

So Billy answers honestly. “No one’s as pretty as you.”

There’s an endless moment where Steve’s eyes dissect the side of Billy’s face. Analyzing, heavy, like he’s peeling back the layers to get to the center of who Billy is. 

For a while there’s just the sound of the wind and the road, Billy sucking smoke into his lungs and blowing it back out again. 

He starts to think maybe he fucked up, maybe he said the wrong thing, but then Steve’s smiling.

And it’s bright as the sun.

“God, you’re a fucking cornball, Hargrove.” But there’s so much fondness. So much love. He shakes his head. “The _biggest_ cornball.”

Billy lets go of a breath he doesn’t realize he was holding. Fuck, he wants to _say it_. 

But of course, like always, the words don't come. So Billy decides to be gentle with himself.

He leans over and presses _eject_ on the stereo.

When he looks over Steve’s eyes are curious.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby, I know you have a _Madonna_ tape hidden under the seat.” He says, and Steve’s eyes get huge.

Comically large, like two brown balloons. “How did you--”

Billy sucks on his cigarette. “Look, we don’t have to make it a big deal, alright. Just.” 

But it is a big deal. Because Billy's the D.J., he just is. Allowing Steve to have control of the stereo is the equivalent to popping the fucking question.

And Steve knows it, Billy can tell.

Because he's grinning like a kid on Christmas, eyes twinkling like a million stars. Like a million more. Billy’s definitely going to regret this, but then he’s grinning, too.

Like an idiot.

“Just put it in, asshole.” He grumbles. 

And Billy doesn’t think Steve’s simile could get any bigger, but then the opening chords of _Material Girl_ rip through the air like a goddamn _fart_ and suddenly it’s worth it just to see Steve head bang to bubble-gum pop.

So this is it, huh? Loving through action.

It ain’t half bad.


	3. Maud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got to talk about baking in this chapter (!) which is my favorite method of shoveling chemicals into my face. I’ve seen a lot of AUs where Steve is a baker but I wanted to give some softness to Billy. He’s a babie. 
> 
> Also: idk how Or why but I would love write a master chef AU? Where Steve and Billy are competing to win the trophy. Tell me if you would be interested in that, I’m a whore for master chef. 
> 
> Rock on <3

Billy decides that Thanksgiving ‘86 with Steve and Max is the best _anywhere_. Those who have the balls to disagree will be met with the business end of his boot.

Because not to brag or anything, but Billy kind of _kills_ it.

He spends the whole week leading up to Thursday night dinner with his blonde head bent over the stove. Hands taking up permanent residence in the oven mitts Steve got him for Valentine's Day, tongue poking out in concentration.

There are few things in life that give Billy the gentle satisfaction of creating a meal from scratch. No matter how angry he's feeling, no matter how stressed he can pull out a cook book and focus all his energy on perfecting a complicated recipe and all his _bullshit_ will melt away. It's become his favorite drug, the process of measuring ingredients.

Billy also loves to cook because eating well is important. 

Sure, he and Max may live in a shitty rent-controlled apartment in South Hawkins that only has one functioning light switch in the living room, but he always makes sure to have fresh ingredients on hand. Dinner on the table every night, all that shit.

Will even go so far as to skip out on a pack of cigarettes if it’s come to that. Billy would rather have something from the heart, something he and Max can enjoy together. 

So Billy’s used to playing Betty Crocker but this year he’s shooting for Martha Stewart.

After a shift at the bar on Saturday night he picks Max up from the Wheeler’s and they make a run to the big supermarket a couple towns over. 

Billy splurges on a new cookbook and all the fanciest ingredients, even shells out a wad of cash on some new mixing bowls and utensils that he lets Max pick out, all in service of the gnarly spread he’s whipping up for Thanksgiving.

He wants to make a good impression on the Harrington’s, alright?

So Steve stays over pretty much all week ( _my grandparents, my aunts_ **_and_ ** _my parents are home, Bill. I’m fucking stayin' here)_ , lounging around in Billy’s sweatpants and avoiding his calculus homework so he and Max serve as Billy’s focus group.

And it’s fucking _unparalleled_ having a couple bottomless pits at his culinary disposal, always hungry, always eager to peel themselves off the couch for a new batch of goodies every couple of hours.

To be honest, Billy isn’t sure where they put all the carbs but he's grateful anyway.

He spends the first couple of days working on fruit pies. His mother still has the best recipe for apple pie fucking _anywhere,_ he thinks, but Steve and Max grow tired of sugar really quickly, all _Billy we only have pie to eat for dinner, my teeth are rotting out of my head._

Real pussy shit, so he tries something new.

Billy thinks he’s nailed the temperamental Shepherd’s Pie recipe on page 307 when Steve does a little dance after the first bite.

Steve always shakes his hips when the food is good and sure enough; “This is better than sex.” Billy smiles when Steve kisses his cheek.

Max’s face is beetroot. “Oh my _god,_ psycho, relax.” She's the tough cookie, the food critic of 403 Hazel Street. 

“Alright shitbird's, feedback?” Billy is impatient, tense. The two kids are hopeless. Running around the tiny kitchen and smacking each other with Billy’s _expensive_ rubber spatulas. “Thoughts?”

Steve dunks his fork back into the pie, oblivious to the mashed potato on his chin. “No, seems pretty good to me.” He says around another forkful.

Billy flicks the lump of mash off Steve’s chin. 

The kid doesn’t even notice. Just keeps shoveling the pie into his mouth with an adorably dopey grin on his face.

“Thanks Sweet Pea,” Billy loves him, loves how easily impressed he is.

Steve will eat anything; Max’s opinion will make or break his confidence.

Billy watches as she dissects a second spoonful, her eyebrows knitted in concentration. He remembers bitterly the time she told him his bur blanc lacked _imagination_ and tries to look hopeful.

After an eternity she says, “Good. More oregano.”

And Billy shoos them out of the kitchen so he can get back to work.

Max and Billy haven’t lived on Cherry Street for over a year. Not since Susan’s passing, and not since Neal laid a finger on Max the first time. Billy had seen him raise a fist to her one morning over breakfast and that had been all the convincing he needed.

Billy had told his sister to pack her shit. 

Had gotten a part time job and a tiny two bedroom apartment lined up. Had slept outside Max’s door like a fucking guard dog until he had enough for the first month’s rent. Had decided that if Neil couldn’t do right by Max then he would.

Billy would make a home for them. 

So he tries to keep things normal, tries to make it feel like Max’s mom is still alive because as much as he hates to think about it, Billy knows how that can be.

He knows that kids need stability. Love and good food and room to make mistakes, all that shit. At least that’s what Joyce’s parenting books tell him.

So Billy tries.

He makes it through a week of cooking and baking nonstop before they have to call in reinforcements ( _you give me one more bite of crème brule and I'm calling Child Services)._

And suddenly it’s Wednesday night, twenty-four hours until Thanksgiving and Billy’s house is chocked _full_ of fourteen year old's. 

They’re sitting all over the fucking place. 

In the living room, in the basement, hanging from the fucking _rafters,_ Billy thinks, and his head is spinning. It’s like each of Max’s dorky friends have multiplied by two and he’s an inch away from ripping his hair out.

Because he’s working on a very serious recipe. 

A black forest cake that’s very technical, fucking hard to get right, and it’s important that he gets the measurements _just_ so. Leveled and even. Perfect.

Only he can’t fucking _focus._

Because Toothless and The Hair are running a fight club in the fucking _living room_ , by the sounds of it, Wheeler’s nasally little brother and Lucas Sinclair screaming at Steve to _kick his ass._

And Billy’s a fucking saint, okay? He deserves some kind of award.

Because he’s re-measuring his flour for a third time, gently sifting so it’s light and airy, when Dustin makes a bone chilling screech and Billy loses track of the ingredients.

Again.

“God- _fucking-_ shit, damnit--” Billy wipes his hands on his apron and turns, ready to rip the heads off a couple of nerds when a gentle voice says; 

“You were on your second cup.”

And Billy doesn’t know when Will Byers sulked into the kitchen but he’s glad to see the kid, anyway. 

“Thanks,” Billy grunts, “You just gonna sit there or are you gonna help?”

Will rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. 

The losers have grown on him over the last few years. 

Billy doesn’t have a lot of strict house rules for Max to follow so the kids come by a lot to hang out. To watch T.V. and play video games and take advantage of Billy being responsible for the light bill. 

In a lot of ways it’s payback for how he treated them in the past so Billy doesn’t really have a leg to stand on.

And he likes seeing how Steve is with them. How he ruffles Dustin’s hair and takes lessons from El on how to French braid. Billy likes cooking lunch for the kids on the weekends, too, when they aren’t being hyper as fuck. 

Which is almost _never_. It’s exhausting.

He has a temper so he doesn’t want kids, not if they have to turn fourteen because that’s gotta be the worst age _fucking ever;_ puberty and first love and all that bullshit. 

The amount of teary late night phone calls to Eleven Billy’s had to bear reluctant witness to? No thanks. Max is a fucking handful and El isn’t too far behind.

But Will manages to challenge Billy’s beliefs about preteens.

He’s different, you might say. Not like most.

Will spends a lot of time in his head. Reading or just watching people, how they move and react to things and in a way Billy takes comfort in his weirdness. Feels like Byers is a kindred spirit.

Things get loud at the Party meetings and he’ll go hang out with Will.

They’ll seek each other out and Billy will chainsmoke on the hood of the Camaro while the kid reads _Goosebumps._ It’s become something he can count on; these bitches are loud as fuck so let’s grab some silence together. 

_Enjoy_ some silence together.

Pretty soon they have the three chocolate sponge cakes baking in the oven at 350, the smell of cream and sugar slowly bleeding through the house.

“How did you know you were gay?” Will asks.

And Billy nearly jumps out of his skin at the suddenness of such a heavy conversation. He scrubs the mixing bowl in his hand and thinks for a minute, tries to answer it in the way he would have wanted it explained to him at Will’s age.

“I guess I just. Always knew, deep down,” Billy says gently.

“Yeah, but. When did you first, you know. _Like_ someone.”

Billy flicks the water from his hands into the sink, eyes sliding lazily to rest on the side of Will’s face. He tuts. “Byers, you _crushing_ on someone?”

The possibility is insane. Absolutely hysterical, mostly because Billy has been paying attention the past couple years, okay?

While all the other dweebs have started falling in love and making out in the back seat when Steve and Billy cart them around town like their own personal limousine service, Byers always sits shotgun with his nose in a book.

Billy could have sworn the kid was asexual. 

And Will is jumpy on a good day but he gets that pissy little look on his face and Billy think’s maybe he jumped the gun a little bit.

Sure enough; “Look, whatever. Let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything--”

Billy tuts again. “Goin’ out to smoke.”

He turns on his heel and kicks the balcony door open, stepping into the chilly night air. Billy pulls a cigarette from his shirt pocket and flicks at his lighter, certain that Byers will follow, like always.

And sure enough; “It’s cold out here,” The kid whines.

And Billy ignores him, because yeah. It’s November. “I guess I was about your age the first time I really liked someone.” 

“In California?”

Will is shivering like a goddamn flamingo in the North Pole and Billy feels bad about making him stand out here like this. But okay; if they’re going to talk about sexuality…

Like, if they’re going to have an _honest_ conversation about _life_ and _mistakes_ and shit, Billy needs some peace and fuckin’ quiet. 

He nods. “Yeah, back before Max and all that.” Billy takes a long drag off his cigarette. “I was kinda nervous to admit it at first. Did all kinds of shit to distract myself from the truth, even when we first came here and I started crushin’ on Harrington. Just, never really thought love was on the table for me so I decided not to try.”

Will is rubbing his arms to stay warm, eyes serious. “What was his name?”

And Billy remembers how his heart leapt into his throat the first time he saw that curly red hair bent over the sand, slim fingers at work building a sandcastle near the mouth of the waves.

Sydney had been like snow white, or something, because a baby sea turtle was resting next to him under the shade of a newspaper, obviously having been separated from his bale.

_“Did you know there’s seven different species of sea turtle?”_

His eyes had been green. Billy remembers wanting to drown in those eyes. 

“I, _uh. What?”_

 _“Yeah, sea turtles are my favorite.”_ Sydney had said, “ _There are a lot of nests in California because it’s a tropical region. Ever seen one up close?”_

And Billy hadn’t so Sydney had grabbed his hand.

Threaded their fingers together and tugged on Billy’s arm until he was squatting next to the sandcastle with a sea turtle cupped between each hand.

“Sydney,” Billy’s voice is barely a whisper. 

“Why did you guys break up?” Will asks, and Billy shrugs.

“Time pulls people apart sometimes, kid.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Over the hazy peace of nightfall Billy can hear the kids shuffling around in the kitchen, devouring the homemade stuffing he’s been slaving over all day.

He hopes they’re remembering to take notes.

Suddenly, Will asks, “Where is Sydney now? Do you guys still talk?”

And Billy remembers the night he’d left for his fellowship in Maine. 

_"This is an important opportunity, guppy.”_ That’s what Sydney had called him. Billy wants to throw up. _“I can’t pass it up, not for anything.”_

But Billy had been scared. _“I love you.”_

“I think he studies marine biology, U of M.” Billy’s throat is tight, constricted. He stabs his cigarette into the brick. “Helluva surfer, I’ll tell you that much.” 

Sydney had taught Billy how to be gentle. How to love. 

He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

\--

“Are you awake?”

Billy frowns against Steve’s soft voice, shying away from the hand on his shoulder. After the kids left for the night Billy had gotten to work cleaning the kitchen. It had taken him hours to tidy the house, those kids are fucking messy and Billy climbs into bed sometime after midnight. Clamps his eyes shut and curls against Steve's sleeping form.

He’s _exhausted_ but the feeling has a jittery edge to it.

The shadows move across his wall and Billy _knows_ he’s not going to catch any sleep. Hasn't stopped in from trying.

He takes his head out from under the pillows, annoyed, and says, “What’s up sweet pea?”

Steve mewls. He shifts closer on the mattress until his face is pressed into the side of Billy’s neck.

“The stuffing was kick ass,” He whispers, lips dragging sweetly. “Mom’s gonna go ballistic. She’s never cooked anything as good as you.”

Mrs. Harrington walked so Billy could run. Had taught him the proper way to avoid soggy bottoms on pie, how to get pasta noodles paper thin without a machine. 

He owes that woman his first born son, she’s the Italian Mary Berry, for Christ-sake.

Billy grins anyway, like a dweeb.

“Thanks, baby.”

They lapse into silence and he thinks maybe Steve is asleep. His breathing goes deep and even so Billy shuts his eyes, allows himself to relax into the steady warmth of Steve’s breath across his collarbones.

He’s just about to slip into blissful darkness when Steve pokes his nose.

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” Billy starts, slapping his hand away. “What, Steve? What?”

And it’s meaner than he intended. Billy’s just cranky, he’s been baking enough to feed a small army, okay? But Steve doesn’t seem to notice. He just snuggles closer and says, roughly:

“I’m gonna come out to my parents tomorrow.”

Billy swears his heart stops beating.

“Are you nervous?”

"Nah, not really," Steve's voice is so soft in the darkness. Billy feels like he's at a sleepover, both boys on their backs sharing secrets with one another. "Mom knows already, I think. Keeps saying how 'Billy is such a nice boy.' I'm just worried about my dad, I guess."

And Billy knows how that can be. He feels the moment press down on him because, look, he _knows_ he's supposed to say something kind.

He's supposed to pull Steve to his chest and whisper some ridiculous bullshit about it being _easy_ and how _your parents will love you no matter what_ when he knows it's not true. 

Billy didn't have the best experience coming out to Neil and he can't lie to the kid.

"Isn't this the part where you're supposed to tell me not to worry?" Steve mutters sarcastically.

Billy hates that, how he can always see right through him.

"Look, Harrington, I don't know what you want me to _say._ God, first Will and now you? I'm not a fucking fairy expert, okay?"

Billy wants to go to sleep. He's tired and his head hurts and for _once_ he just wants to got to bed and then wake up and have dinner and be _normal_.

But Steve makes a pained noise and Billy has no choice.

He takes a deep breath.

"Sweet pea, look. I'm gonna tell you what I told the kid, alright? It's a shit sandwich, coming out to your folks. No matter how well you _think_ you know your parents, they'll react however they were raised to react and first and then. Maybe, if you're lucky, they'll regain their sanity and they'll realize that you're still Steve. Still their son."

It comes pouring out of him, all the pent up bullshit from when he was still figuring things out.

What he wouldn't have _given_ for someone to help him along on his journey.

"What are you going to do if they don't accept it," Billy asks. He blinks away tears and turns his head so Steve's nose is brushing against his own. "What if they don't accept you?"

Steve is quiet for so long that Billy thinks maybe he fell asleep again.

He counts the seconds, times them with Harrington’s breathing. He watches the light from the street stretch long and bright across his ceiling until the sky grows steely and gray. Maybe he was too harsh, maybe he should have been sweeter.

 _Softer_. But that isn't Billy and, more importantly, that isn't real life.

The most helpful thing Billy can do is prepare him for war and be there to hold him when all he wants to do is fly to pieces.

Finally, Steve speaks. 

“Doesn’t matter. It’s time,” He says. “I don’t want to hide you anymore. Can’t.”

And Billy can’t think of anything else to say, because what _do_ you say in a moment like this? _I accept you. I’m here for you._

_I love you._

Billy tightens his grip on Steve’s shoulders and settles for:

“I’ll be right there to hold your hand.”

Steve kisses the tip of Billy's nose and says, softly, "I love you, too."

And Billy adores that, the way Steve can see right through him.


	4. Ringgold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight, for your viewing pleasure may I suggest pairing this chapter with:  
> Pristine, by Snail Mail  
> and  
> Proud, by (Sandy) Alex G  
> Light tangy feeling of insecurity on the back palette. An aftertaste of love and desperation, which always go down easy, right?  
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is sick in this chapter so be prepared for all the grossness that comes with that! Billy's getting so soft that I'm pretty sure he's just a loose bag of pudding tied into a vaguely human shape, at this point.
> 
> I'm sorry (even though I'm kinda not). Soft Billy is my favorite!

Billy spends the three days after Thanksgiving nursing Steve back to health. As it turns out, the kid has the best parents in the fucking world. 

Because after Steve stands in front of his entire family and says, _I’m bisexual. I like boys and girls. This is my boyfriend, Billy,_ right in front of his Republican uncle’s piece of pumpkin pie, Billy had to like, awkwardly smile and nod at their stunned expressions. 

Like a dweeb. All _yes, we are homosexuals._

And Mr. and Mrs. Harrington just smiled back.

“We always knew, Stevie. Now eat your pie.”

Like it’s fucking _simple_ and _okay_ and _normal_ for an Upper Middle Class Midwestern family to have a son that regularly raws other boys.

Well, not others. Just one. 

And Billy tries really fucking hard not to be bitter. Tries to eat Thanksgiving dinner and smile and wash the dishes. Tries not think about the fourteen stitches he had to get when he came out to Neil.

Tries not to think about how Max’s face had been pale green the first time he told her about Steve.

Tries not to think about _any_ of it because as much as it hurts that Billy can never seem to have anything nice no matter what he does, Steve deserves the best of everything and Billy will spend the rest of his fucking life making sure Steve gets it. 

Because he’s the sun on earth. Happiness personified. 

Billy tries not to be bitter because, yeah. 

Steve _deserves_ to hug it out with his parents. To cry those twinkly little tears of acceptance and release the breath he’s been desperately holding in his lungs for eighteen years. 

Steve deserves to be accepted and then get drunk with his dad and have a fucking heart to heart after the rest of their extended family heads to bed for the night.

Because if he’s really being honest with himself Billy can handle turmoil. Steve cannot. 

If the afternoon had gone sideways and Steve’s tears had turned muddy and desperate while Mr. Harrington wailed on his milky frame and told him to _pack his shit_ , Billy would have killed every fucking person in that house and then himself.

Because Steve deserves happiness. Fuck.

So, yeah. Billy tries not to be bitter.

And it gets easier when Steve is so hungover that he can’t get out of bed for three days. Billy feels like an asshole for enjoying it, just a little bit. 

Steve’s absolutely miserable. Can’t keep his eyes open to a light brighter than the cherry of Billy’s cigarette, and it’s kind of cute.

The way he’s bratty and pissy. The way he requires fresh water and snuggles and shoulder rubs when his migraine reaches a fever pitch on Sunday night. 

“This is punishment. I’m being punished because that was _too_ easy, Bill,” Steve moans over a trash can. “It shouldn’t have been so simple.”

Billy wipes roughly at Steve’s clammy forehead and worries that it might be food poisoning. When he brings it up Steve just nods, like the possibility isn’t at all surprising. 

“I knew Aunt Mae’s casserole tasted weird, didn’t I say it tasted like cat food?” 

Billy nods his head. It did taste like cat food. Homemade cat food, bean and salmon flavor or something. “Want some seltzer? I can make a run to the market.”

Steve makes a horrible, twisted face as he gags again. “Fucking, she was _too relaxed_ about the whole thing. When my cousin Mike came out she didn’t talk to him for three years.” He blinks wide, terrified eyes up at Billy from his spot on the floor. “Do you think she tried to poison me?”

“Nah,” He says casually. But Billy _definitely_ thinks the kid is getting delirious so he puts Steve to bed (after a ten minute promise to come _right back)_ and yanks the telephone receiver off the wall. 

One quick call to Mrs. Harrington will solve all their problems.

She picks up on the third ring. “Billy, how are you? Thanks again for the stuffing and pie, I’m so proud of you!”

Billy smiles. Like an idiot. “Thanks, Mrs. H.” So he likes the woman. Sue him.

“What can I do for you, is my son eating you out of house and home yet?”

Billy winces. “Actually, that’s what I called to ask you about. I think Steve may have food poisoning? Or the flu, or something. At first I thought it might have been because he was hung over but he hasn’t been able to keep anything down for three days. I’ve been making him soup and measuring out his liquids because--”

It takes Billy a couple of seconds to realize that Mrs. Harrington is laughing.

 _Chuckling_ at him, little breathy noises that resemble Steve so closely that his head swims. Billy has to physically reboot to stop from mouthing off because Steve is _sick._

This is serious.

“I don’t get it,” He says thinly, “What’s so funny?”

Mrs. Harrington makes a gentle noise. “I’ve just never seen anyone so worried over my son before. You really love him, don’t you Bill?”

And yeah, he fucking does. _Obviously_ Billy loves Steve, worships the ground he’s always tripping over because why else would Billy be changing the sheets every few hours and running Steve warm baths like a fucking nurse maid?

It’s really a no brainer. Billy wishes everyone would stop calling him out on it.

Instead he settles for; “Can you give me some pointers?” And then, because he doesn’t like how he’s suddenly become so transparent to everyone, “I’m hoping to get the smell of vomit out of my apartment within the next ten years or so.”

Mrs. Harrington just laughs again.

Billy tires not to be bitter.

\--

He ends up with a list of things. 7-up, Vicks Vapo rub, cherry cough syrup, castor oil. All shit he knows Steve will refuse to swallow unless it’s mixed into ice cream or something. This isn’t his first rodeo, okay? Steve’s a pissy little girl when he’s sick.

Mrs. Harrington also shares an old family recipe for potato soup that calls for double the cream and extra onion, as well as leeks. 

Billy has to raise his eyebrows at that. Steve’s been sick as a dog, Billy _seriously_ doubts something that heavy will go down without a bitch fit from Steve’s internal organs.

But he goes to the store anyway. 

Chops up the vegetables and mourns the carpet in his bedroom because, yeah, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington will be getting the cleaning bill when the shit hits the fan. 

At some point in the middle of Billy preparing the soup Steve shuffles out of their bedroom, a blanket tucked up and around his head like a dorky little hat. His nose is red and his cheeks are flushed and he looks like shit.

Billy wants to kiss him.

So he does, and then he shoves a cup of medicine at where he assumes Steve's hands are placed under the blanket. “Drink, asshole.”

Steve pouts, opens his mouth to no doubt raise absolute _hell_ about it but Billy just shakes his head because he’s not doing that. 

Billy will do pretty much anything for Steve. 

Including (but not limited to) nursing his grumpy ass back to health for absolutely as long as it takes, but he’s going to make sure Steve’s at least half-trying to get better.

Harrington swallows thickly, his nose screwing up in disgust. Then, accusingly; “Did you call my mom? This tastes like shit.”

“Woman’s a genius,” Billy grumbles. He goes back to stirring the soup and insists, over his shoulder, “Max is watching _Back to the Future._ Take a 7-up with you, kid.”

Steve does. But not before kissing Billy’s neck as he shuffles out the door.

So yeah, maybe Billy is a little bit transparent.

He dishes up three bowls of soup, putting an extra kick of black pepper and turmeric in Steve’s because he read _somewhere_ that it can help with inflammation.

Steve’s been using all of Billy’s clean underwear as tissues for his little Rudolph nose. As cute as it is he’s starting to lose his patience with the whole thing.

So they eat their soup, Steve and Billy wrapped in two thick blankets and Max practicing her skateboarding tricks right there in the living room _despite_ Billy threatening to make her pay for the maintenance order he knows they’re going to have to put in.

“It’s too cold to skate outside,” Max huffs.

Billy just rolls his eyes and makes Steve drink all of his 7-up and then two cups of water.

They watch the rest of _Back to the Future_ and then half of _Equinox_ before Steve feels comfortable enough to sleep. Right as Harrington is settling against him, eyelids heavy and drooping, Max’s skateboard knocks a hole in the wall and Billy freaks out.

 _Completely_ loses his shit.

“Maxine, what the _fuck_ did I just--” He jostles Steve’s wiry frame as he hops to his feet, earning him a small snuffling sound from Harrington.

Billy makes it across the room in two strides.

“B-Billy, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would--I’m sorry, _please.”_ Max looks completely terrified, like she really believes he’s going to kill her or something and that sobers him up.

_Don’t be like Neil. You aren’t Neil._

Billy takes four breaths before he yanks the board out of Max’s hand and says evenly, through clenched teeth, “Take it outside before I kick your ass.”

She nods, scampering out the door like the building is on fire. 

Billy feels like shit but this apartment is _expensive._ And he warned her and she didn’t listen, like always. Joyce’s parenting books say to warn three times and then take action.

He did it right, okay?

Still. It doesn’t stop him from seeing that look on her face every time he blinks.

When he turns back around Steve is ramrod straight, the blanket gathered around his waist. He looks like a startled puppy, all flushed cheeks and soft eyes. His hair flat and slept on and Billy _hates_ the look on his face. 

Equal parts mushy and concerned. Like Billy just won father of the year or something.

“The fuck are you looking at, shitbird?” He growls, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice over the gentle smile on his lips.

“Nothing, sugar. You just.” Steve shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You’re just such a fucking _dad._ ”

Billy rolls his eyes. He trots back to the couch, yanking the blanket up around his shoulders, pointedly ignoring that dopey grin on Steve’s face. 

Steve settles in against him and they rewind the tape. Their silence is soft, companionable, and before long Billy is nodding off. Teetering on the edge of sleep as Steve’s body heat burns all the way to his bones. 

Billy feels like he’s being cooked from the inside out. It’s nice. Steve shifts around on the couch next to him until his face is pressed against Billy’s neck. 

“You’d be a great dad,” Steve says. 

Billy snorts. “Yeah, because my anger issues would make it so easy for us to raise the fuckin’ kid, right?”

Steve tenses against Billy’s side and the moment just sort of hangs there. Tangible in the late afternoon light. 

He doesn’t know why he said it.

Maybe he just got caught up in the moment. In the shepherd’s pie and the activity of the last few weeks and the way Steve makes Billy feel like he’s entering a warm room after being out in the rain all day.

Steve feels like home. Billy doesn’t know why he says it and as the moments tick by he starts to panic. Because that was a dumb thing to say.

So astronomically dumb to think that Steve would ever want that. 

He opens his mouth to rebuff, to take it back, to crush the moment in his fists but then Steve’s hand is on his chin. Guiding their eyes together.

His face is wet. “I want that, someday.” Steve says slowly. “With you.”

Billy frowns despite the sincerity of it all, despite the love pouring from Steve’s eyes like river water from a broken dam.

“You don’t have to say that, Steve,” Billy keeps his eyes forward, hyper aware of Steve’s breath on his cheek.

“I  _ mean it,  _ Billy,” His voice is hard. “I want to be with you forever. I want to, like, buy a mini van and have four kids and fucking--”

It hurts. Everything in Billy’s chest feels like it’s being crushed under the weight of a mountain. 

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe he’s just afraid, maybe he’s realistic, maybe he’s just an asshole. 

In the end it doesn’t matter. Because in the end, Billy just says; “We’re eighteen years old. We aren’t going to be together forever, asshole, that’s not how this works.”

And Steve closes like a steel door. 

His body shrinks away like he was pushed and Billy regrets those words like a knife in the back.  _ Fuck  _ he regrets it when Steve wipes at the tears on his cheeks. Regrets it when Steve stands on unsure feet and says, roughly:

“I’m gonna. I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Steve--”

“Don’t.”

And then he’s gone. Billy’s an asshole.

But what else is new.


	5. Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might I suggest a glass of:  
> California, by Joni Mitchell
> 
> I can't stop writing this story. I think it's starting to stray a little bit from the summary but hey! That's what it's ALLLLL about ;)  
> Let me know if you want me to shut up!  
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kinda, um. Took a dark turn.  
> I'm sorry.  
> But all will be mended before the day is through, gents. We die like men.
> 
> Warnings for:  
> Canon-typical Violence  
> Domestic Violence

By the time Billy makes it into the bedroom, three hours and four beers later with an entire _speech_ cued on the surface of his lips, it’s pretty obvious that Steve is still upset.

Billy pays attention, alright? 

All the signs are there; Steve’s discarded pile of clothes lying crumpled on the floor instead of in the hamper, for starters. 

That's a big one. Steve knows Billy hates that. 

Knows they’ll fight about it.

Billy feels a tug in his chest at that, something dangerously close to _bashful_ leaking through his veins as he strips down naked and crawls into bed.

He still isn't used to the feeling of being _known_ like that by someone.

Billy swallows his pride, scooting closer on the mattress to press his side against Steve's back.

That's his olive branch, his call for peace. He holds his breath while Steve sighs and fucking _scoots away._

Petty. Annoying, but whatever.

If Steve wants to talk, he will. 

Billy isn’t a goddamn mind reader.

He hikes himself up in bed and flicks on the lamp. Sleep is dancing just out of reach and Billy isn't about to lay here and listen to Steve sulk all night. 

No fuckin' way.

He picks their battered copy of _Flowers in the Attic_ from the stack on the nightstand and turns to chapter fifteen, determinedto weaponize it against Steve's cold shoulder. 

Harrington tosses and turns for twenty minutes, sighing like he's running the mile. Haughty. Clipped. 

Bratty.

Steve keeps shooting daggers out his eyes and _sighing_ , like that, as if the light from Billy's reading lamp is keeping him awake.

Which is bullshit, by the way.

Harrington's afraid of the dark. Like, _has to fall asleep with the light on, still wakes up with night-terrors at 3:03 on the dot, like clockwork_ **afraid of the dark.**

Billy reads to him every night to help him fall asleep.

The honey-rumble of his voice caressing the hills and valleys of a story, the warm glow of the light casting shadows across Steve's face while they work through the chapters--

That seems to help. 

It's the only thing that comfort's Steve enough to provide peace for him, most nights.

But sometimes they'll read until the dawn shines through the window because Steve is vibrating out of his skin with fear and anxiety.

And Billy will hold him tight and keep telling the story even though his eyes are heavy.

Steve deserves rest. Happiness, and Billy's determined to give it to him. 

No matter the cost.

Even though he's exhausted.

But, eventually, Steve will fall asleep and Billy will turn off the light.

Two minutes later Steve will wake up screaming and Billy will have to curb several panic attacks.

Talk to him, read to him, sing sometimes if he's lost in the woods.

Billy can always sense when one of those nights is coming.

Steve suddenly lifts his head, hands slapping the pillow into shape, grumbling under his breath like a child.

“Something you wanna tell me?” Billy asks dryly. 

Steve shrugs his shoulders, the whole bed shifting with the give and take. 

Billy waits, his fingers tugging loosely at the edge of the page. 

“You know the rules, Sweet Pea,” he mumbles, “Only way we fix the issue is by--”

“Addressing it _head on,_ I fucking _know_.”

Billy feels his forehead crease. Brat. 

Such a goddamn _brat_.

He takes a deep breath. “Whatever. I extended the branch. Not my fuckin’ problem if you wanna ignore it. That’s your right.”

Steve flops over onto his back and stares at the ceiling, measured breaths leaking into the air, fireworks and confetti in the dim light.

Billy reads five more pages before Steve snaps.

“I just don’t understand why you have to keep reading when I clearly _don’t want to read tonight,”_ He says loudly, almost like he can’t keep it in anymore. “Jesus, it’s like--I get it, Billy. You can stop now.”

Billy sticks the polaroid of Steve between the pages, marking his spot. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Steve’s nostrils flare. He clenches his eyes and then, slowly, turns his head until their eyes meet. 

“We read together, dipshit.” And then, softly; “That’s our thing. Why are you reading without me?”

Billy has to physically swallow the biting remark on his tongue. 

"Do you want me to start this chapter over?" He asks.

"What are you, _deaf?"_ Steve says flatly. "No, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you, asshole."

So Harrington is pissed. 

Fucking _fuming,_ if his eerie calm is anything to go by, and Billy almost recoils in discomfort.

They’re so different in so many obvious ways but this is the worst and biggest.

In terms of anger Billy is a showman. A fist through drywall here, a punch to the ribs there. Like with love, and disgust, and envy, and hatred, and rage--Billy is loud. Passionate.

Steve is like a frozen river--cold. Icy still on the surface but below the black glass violent riptides churn and convulse.

Billy’s had plenty of practice navigating those currents. He’s been trapped beneath the glass before, he can do it again.

And; he's not a fucking saint, okay?

“You were acting like a diva,” Billy spits. “It’s still early. Wanted to read, nothing more to it.”

Wrong answer.

Billy nearly jumps out of his skin when Steve crowds into his face, eyes rimmed with gentle pink kisses.

He’s been crying. 

Billy feels like an asshole.

“Yeah, but why didn’t you pick one of _your_ books?” Steve taps the cover with an aggressive, tense finger. “That one is ours.”

There’s something in his voice that puts the Byers’ driveway under Billy’s feet, the smell of fog in his nose.

Billy clenches his teeth. “Does it matter?”

 _"Yes,_ it fucking matters.”

Steve stands, wearing pale blue boxers and nothing else.

Billy tries not to think about Steve's boxers. 

“You haven’t read that book on your own in months, Bills.” He paces back and forth, hands on his hips, neck flushed pink. “Why are you pushing me away?”

And Billy’s confused.

 _Real_ fucking confused. 

Because: “I’m sorry, _pushing you away?_ Who just spent the last three days cleaning vomit out of your hair and fixing homemade soup for you like a goddamn bitch?” He asks.

Steve's eyes narrow to pin needles. 

“Nobody asked you to do that--”

“Yeah, well. We don’t always get what we ask for, do we?” Billy waves a hand vaguely in the air, sucking his teeth to stop from punching a wall. 

Steve gets the picture.

Billy reaches into the nightstand for his smokes and saunters over to the window, shoulder-checking Steve in a way he hasn’t done in _months._

Feels comforting, almost. Familiar.

Like old times.

Billy lets the smoke fill his lungs as he peers through the thick night air. “Huh. Looks like rain,” He says.

When Billy turns around again Steve is staring at him.

Not with lust, he doesn’t think, but with something deeper. Guttural.

His eyes slide lower, and _lower_ still until the heat leaves Billy’s skin charged and aching. 

He feels like covering his body with a blanket.

Hiding, before Steve sees too much of what he is.

Instead Billy decides to deflect, keep the spotlight away. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about.”

Steve shakes his head. “No way, you owe me.”

“ _Owe_ you?” Billy smirks, face obscured by a cloud of smoke. “That’s rich.”

God, this is so stupid. 

Sure, Billy _might_ have been an asshole and _yes,_ Steve has a right to be upset but they’ve been working on this. 

Communication. Transparency in problem solving. 

It’s one of their agreements.

Billy’s just tired. Exhausted from playing the perfect boyfriend and the maid and the caregiver. 

Trying so hard but never doing the right thing. He feels like shit.

But, as Steve’s eyes slip from Billy's face to his hips, he knows what role Steve wants him to play.

 _Needs_ him to play.

The whore. The bitch. Billy takes one step forward, then two. One after the other until his fingers tug at the waistband of those pretty blue boxers.

Billy licks into Steve’s mouth, determined to perfect his role and make him proud, when Steve pulls away.

“Why are you acting like this?” Billy demands. Steve just shakes his head. 

“Do you love me?” 

"Shut up, dick, you know I do," Is what Billy says.

Knee-jerk, clunky. 

Insulting too, apparently, because Steve's face closes like an iron gate.

"Then why do you treat me like shit?"

And that. 

_That_ is fucking hilarious. Billy lights another cigarette and thinks if modelling doesn't pay off Harrington has options in Stand-up.

Goddamn comedian.

He turns his back to the room and puffs on his cigarette. Doesn't feel like arguing or standing up for himself or fucking _anything._

Because his therapist said--fuck. 

Billy's an asshole. "I've been trying to. To _show_ you, Stevie." 

He hears the bed creak under Steve's weight, the gentle snuffle of covers wrapped around skin. 

Billy loves that body, that sound.

Steve's throat clicks as he says, "Why can't you just say it? What's three little words?"

Billy loves Steve.

He tosses his cigarette out the window and shrugs, the sound of the ocean in his ears.

Sydney. Turtles and sunscreen kisses.

He broke Billy's heart.

"Guess I've never been too good with words."

"I want something tangible." Steve says thinly. "I want to hear you to say it. Now."

And something roars to life in Billy's stomach.

Something hot and violent like a building set on fire. He feels smoke pouring through his veins, staining the wallpaper. 

It's so fucked up. 

All of it, he's. He's devastated.

"I need time, Stevie." Billy says to the cars at the stop light. "I'm sorry, it's. I'm. Fucked up."

They're swallowed by silence. 

Billy counts the seconds, which turn into minutes and then, as if by some curse he hears Steve shuffling around the room.

Putting things into a bag.

Leaving.

He finally turns around. 

"Steve, where are you--" Billy's voice cracks like sound of ceramic against bone. Feels like it too. " _Please."_

Harrington pauses for just a second. 

His eyes are so glassy, so wet that it's like staring at the surface of a pool.

Billy can see his own reflection. 

His own disappointment in Steve's eyes, amplified by a million.

Billy nearly drowns.

"I think I knew I loved you that first day at practice, do you remember that?" Steve asks.

And then he's moving again. Putting his shoes on.

Billy's heart stops beating.

Steve's voice wobbles like a baby deer on ice. "You were the first guy who ever. The first _person_ who ever made me feel like I could submit. Before that I was always moving, always running and trying to fucking, I dunno, get beyond my skin? I wasn't comfortable. Or happy. Or _alive,_ even. Not until I met you."

"S-Steve," Billy whines.

But he just keeps going. "Bills. You made me whole. Completed a puzzle that had missing pieces and fucked up pictures and you just. You never shied away from me. Not once. You weren't afraid of the bad parts and I thought. _Jesus,_ Billy, I. _Fuck_ I was going to ask you..."

He finally stops moving. 

"I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, asshole."

Billy knows he's never going to recover from this.

"Past tense," He says thickly, "Can't be good."

Steve lunges forward before either of them fully register the movement. 

Billy's skull cracks against the wall and he's on Cherry Lane, again.

Lonely.

Bloody and Bruised. Abandoned. Billy feels panic burning in the back of his skull as Steve's fingers dig into his throat, hard enough to bruise and Billy.

He doesn't want to die.

"Steve. Take your hands off me."

He does. Steps back like Billy's skin is on fire, and maybe it is.

Because _fuck_ suddenly they're in the Byer's living room and Billy wants to paint the walls with Steve's blood.

Wants to tear him apart. Ruin him.

He hasn't felt like that in a long time.

"Get out," His lips say. Billy hears the words like they're coming from on high. 

"Bills, I'm--" Steve's finger tips brush against Billy's cheekbones, soft as a whisper, and that's all it takes.

"You don't get tofucking touch me again. _Ever_ again." He says.

Billy shoves him, Knocking Steve toward the bed.

His back cracks painfully against the footboard and it takes every ounce of Billy's self control to stop there.

Steve nods once. Twice. Finally understanding.

"Get out, Steve."

So, he does.

And Billy is alone.


	6. Try Hard Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pair this one with:  
> Yellow, by Pity Party  
> and  
> No Angel, by Beyoncé.
> 
> (I'm a black girl, you knew it was coming.)

It was Steve’s fault. That’s Billy’s stance on the whole thing, even though it’s only a half-truth and he’s made a point of swearing off those for good.

Still. It doesn’t stop him from trying. 

The second the front door slams shut Billy crumples to the floor like a paper kite in the rain. His breathing immediately shutters in his chest, reduced to shards by the freight train of emotions running laps through his head.

He spent the majority of his childhood crying over broken bones. 

Split lips, sprained wrists, bruises that came in variety packs, all at the hands of his father. Billy used to wait until Neil was gone. Until his car was pulling around the corner and out of sight before he let himself cry--any other option was like writing a check for something Billy couldn’t afford. 

Billy never knew when Neil would reappear.

Steve has never been like that. Has never _once_ used his physical body to intimidate Billy, not since that night when he was left in pieces on the Byers’ living room floor with a needle stuck in his throat.

Steve’s never made Billy feel like he has to hold back, not from anything. 

Even the bad stuff. 

Once they got together they had made it a point to talk things _through_ because Billy Hargrove is a victim of abuse. 

He doesn’t like to guess what’s wrong. Can’t handle the quiet anger and averted eyes because that means he’s going to get hit for something that he didn’t even _know about._

Maybe that’s why he lets himself cry so soon. Maybe he’s hoping Steve will come back through the door and sit on the bed, talk through things like they’ve always done because Steve Harrington? he isn't Neil. 

And Billy needs Steve to come back.

He needs an open book. He needs to know where he stands with people so he feels safe because Billy is always on edge.

Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sometimes even a change in Steve's tone, his shadow cast on the wall, a twitch of the vein in his neck can pull Billy under. Break him down. Make him afraid until, suddenly, he’s that five year old kid again, asking his daddy what he did wrong through a swollen lip.

So, yeah. Billy’s in recovery and it’s been _difficult_ to work at relearning those things, to make progress in the right direction, for once. 

While progress _has_ been made he’s still volatile. Imperfect. 

Until tonight he had always told himself that Steve would never hurt him again. That the walls had been reduced to rubble. They wouldn’t wail on each other like they used to, Billy said, because that part of their story was over.

Yeah. Billy had let himself believe all that shit.

Where Steve’s blood on his knuckles used to be the most beautiful thing in the world to Billy, now he wants to be loved. Softly, gently like he’s something precious. Valuable.

And Until tonight Steve had done just that. Until tonight Steve had always made him feel like he was worthy of love, but that’s the thing about Billy Hargrove. 

Even when he’s trying every man in his life still wants to put a fist through his skull. 

Billy likes to tell himself he’s changed, but he hasn’t.

Not really.

He still rips people to shreds, and slowly. He ruins beautiful things because he isn’t supposed to have them. Deep down inside Billy knows Neil was always right. 

_You deserve what you got, youdeserveit youdeserveit._

Billy sobs once, the force of it knocking him to the ground. He clutches the ugly carpet on his bedroom floor and counts to twenty, willing himself to crawl through to the other side of this new wave of panic.

One, two, three, four, _five..._

It takes a minute longer than usual for Billy to make it into bed, to tuck the covers up around his chin with shaky fingers. 

He takes a deep breath and succumbs to his sadness. Because in the dark, empty night Billy knows the truth:

Neil was _always_ right. 

Steve wouldn’t have hurt him unless he deserved to be hurt. 

\--

The phone is ringing.

Shit. 

Billy squints into the shadowy corners of his bedroom and rubs at his eyes, unsure how long he’s been laying in the dark with tears streaming down his face. 

His legs feel like jello and he isn’t sure they’d hold him if he tried to stand, so Billy yanks the blanket up over his head and clenches his eyes until the ringing stops.

He feels satisfied. Sleepy, even, until it starts up again.

“ _J_ _esus_ Christ--” Billy sits too fast, wincing at the pain lacing through his throat, his skull. “Max are you getting that, or what?”

Billy pays for the little shit to have a separate line connected in her room, for God-sake, he plans to get his money’s worth.

She bangs against the wall, muffled voice telling him to fuck off.

Billy swings his legs over the side of the bed and stomps to the kitchen, so furious he sees stars.

“What.”

It takes five seconds for _whoever the fuck_ to say _anything_ and he starts to get angry. Furious.

Billy can hear them talking with their head turned to the side, firmly telling a second person to _wait a minute._

Person #2 whines and Billy. 

He would know that sound anywhere. “Steve?” 

His voice sounds pathetic and desperate, even to his own ears. Harrington makes another noise at that, louder this time, and Billy starts to worry.

The clock on the stove reads _3:27 a.m._ Billy has to physically swallow his fear. 

“Stevie, are you alright?”

“I need you to come get him. Now.” 

Robin.

Billy’s mood instantly sours. _Of course_ he would run right to her Very Capable arms at the first sign of trouble. Classic Steve.

He snorts. “Yeah? And why should I do that?”

Robin is probably thinking the worst of him in this moment, always has. Probably believes that Billy chased Steve down the street with a chainsaw, or something.

Billy has to remind himself that he isn’t playing the villain today. Robin yanks her head away from the receiver again to yell at Steve, who very faintly says:

“Lemme talk ta him!” With his words slurring together into one long sentence.

He’s drunk. 

“Don’t call here again,” Billy says loudly because why would he even _want_ to talk after what happened.

He does, though. That's the kicker. Billy’s been listening for the sound of the front door all night like an idiot, hopeful that Steve would come _home._

If there's anything life has taught him it's that hope is a wasted feeling.

“He’s your boyfriend.” Robin says with all too much confidence and finality. “Any little fight you had--”

Billy grits his teeth. “Harrington tell you what happened tonight?”

Steve yanks the phone away and says, quickly, “Wanna suck you off.”

And Billy _so_ doesn’t need this. Robin snatches the phone back. There’s a rustling sound and then the sharp squeak of Harrington stubbing his toe on something.

His heart gives a painful squeeze.

“Billy, he’s drunk. Cut the kid some slack.” 

That’s rich.

“Are you fuckin’--” Billy scrubs a hand across his face. “You both suck at apologies, you know that? Kid’s your problem now. Always was,” He adds bitterly. “Don’t call here again.”

Billy moves to hang up the phone when:

“Don’t you _fucking_ hang up on me!” Robin barks. “Steve woke _me_ up at two a.m. on a school night because of you and your big dumb mouth. Now he’s shitfaced in my parents’ backyard. Either you come get him or--”

She doesn’t get the chance to finish. Steve grabs the phone, voice so deep and emphatic that he almost sounds sober.

“Wanna come home.” He says.

“You’re the one who left,” Billy spits. Because it’s true. Steve did this to them. “Go back to your own place, asshole.”

“I luh you,” Harrington whines, nearly unintelligible. Billy hears Robin swear from somewhere in the background. “I do. Wanna be in your bed, Bill, wanna live in your heart.”

“You already fucking _do,”_ He snarls. Then; “Steve, go to bed. Fucking go to bed and goddamn _move on,_ alright? Just. Leave me alone.”

But he doesn’t mean it. 

Billy thinks he does, for a bright second, but then Steve falls silent and Robin snatches the phone back from him. 

“What the fuck did you say to him, dick?”

“I. Huh?” Billy asks.

Robin makes that noise again. “He’s inconsolable, Billy. He drank a bottle of wine and asked me to hit him.” She pauses for half a second. “What the hell happened?”

Billy opens his mouth to respond when Robin screams.

“Steve? Steve, _stop--”_

Billy’s heart starts sprinting. “What’s happening,” He asks desperately, “Robin, what--”

“He’s goddamn _hitting--”_

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” Billy says. 

He hangs up the phone.

\--

Steve’s face looks like hamburger meat. 

Billy wants to throw up.

“Fucking _finally,_ ” Robin hisses. She folds her arms and advances at him from her spot on the chase lounge. 

Billy walks right past Steve, pointedly ignoring the happy, hopeful little noise he made the second Billy rounded the corner into the backyard. 

Steve’s holding an ice pack to his forehead and Billy feels like he’s picking up his bratty child from daycare, expected at a meeting with the principal because of a fight at recess, or something.

Billy resents that.

“What happened to him?” He asks.

Robin rolls her eyes. “Went ham on that tree over there and then punched himself a couple times.” He can tell from the tilt of her mouth that she’s furious at both of them. Like this is somehow Billy’s fault, too. “Didn’t even think that was possible, but.”

_Here we are._

Billy nods because, honestly, what else is there to do. “Look, I’m sorry you had to deal with this. I’ll drop him off at--” He starts.

Steve pipes up from his spot at the sun table. _“Him_ can fuckin’ hear you, dipshit’s.” 

Billy whirls on him, nostrils flaring, hands shaking at his sides. He’s so _worried_ he doesn’t know what to do with himself and Steve sobers immediately, ice pack hitting the table with a thud. 

Billy hates to admit it but it’s plain as day. Written in black, permanent marker across Steve’s forehead. Obvious, if you know where to look.

Steve’s afraid of him.

“I’ll take it from here. Thanks, Robin.” Billy says flatly, his eyes never wavering from that bloody face.

She hesitates for half a second before turning and retreating through the double doors on the patio. Robin pauses and says, “Let me know when you get home safe.”

And then it’s just the two of them.

Steve’s jaw is swollen, his lips twice the size as usual like maybe he was stung by a bunch of bees. Billy scrubs a hand across his face, impressed that Steve did such a number on himself. 

Kid’s got a mean right hook; Billy knows from experience.

Steve isn’t looking at him anymore. His chin is quivering.

Billy tries not to think about Steve’s lips as he says, meanly: “Well, let’s go. I’m not a goddamn taxi service, Harrington, I got places to be.”

That seems to snap him out of his weird, wine induced trance.

Steve snorts. “What, I’m ‘Harrington,’ all of a sudden?”

“Y’know for someone who had his _fingers_ around my throat a couple hours ago, you got a pair, you know that?” Billy takes a few steps forward. “Never let _anybody_ touch me like that and live to talk about it.”

Steve looks like he might die, right then and there. 

It’s unmistakable, the regret that’s slicing his face open under the full moon. Steve yanks his fingers through his hair in a way that _has_ to hurt. “I’m. I’m so sorry, Bill. I’m--”

“What do you want me to say, Steve?” Billy asks gruffly. “That it’s okay?”

The kid lets out a low, feverish whine and Billy wants to kiss him. Make it all better. The urge is so powerful that his fingers twitch against his jacket. 

Billy doesn’t let himself touch Steve. 

“Garrison's fourth period English,” He says quietly.

Steve stares at him, brown eyes somber. “I. I don’t understand.”

Billy shrugs his shoulders. He hadn’t expected it to come out this way but it might as well. Life has a way of flying off the rails, diverging from the course. 

He swallows. “We were reading _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and you said something about Titania just having a beastility kink. Said it _wasn’t anything to be ashamed of,_ or something equally brain-dead. You were such a little brat back then. Still are.” Billy chuckles, voice far away. “So Garrison assigns the roles for our class reading, do you remember that? I was Oberon and you were my--”

“Titania.” Steve says glumly. “Yeah, I. I remember.”

Billy nods because, honestly, how could either of them forget. 

“I think he did it out of spite, y’know, casting a boy as the Fairy Queen. Humiliate you for causing so much shit. You threw yourself into it, though. Came to class wearing a flower crown everyday; Belladonna and oak leaves, I remember. So pretty,” He says. “Built it yourself, said it helped you get into character. We read that play for what must have been a week, tops, but by the end you were my Titania. My fairy queen. Perfect.”

Steve stares at him, eyes glassy just like before, only this time Billy when gets lost in those milky browns he doesn’t see shame reflected back at him. 

No, this time Billy sees love. 

Pure, unadulterated. Potent. 

He smiles again. “That’s when I knew I loved you, I think.”

Steve stands so fast the chair topples over behind him, but neither can find it within themselves to care. He crosses the space between them in two long strides and then they’re nose to nose, chest to chest, just like before.

“I fucking knew it,” Steve says, “I knew you wanted me.”

Billy gasps as Steve’s hands somehow work their way into his shirt, warm despite the chilly November air. His breath ghosts against those cherry lips; Steve leans in out of pure necessity, it seems.

“You’re the sun and the moon,” Billy says. “First and last and always, the beginning and the end.”

“Say it,” Steve moans, his teeth scraping sweetly against the tender flesh of Billy’s neck. “Wanna hear you, Bills. Please.”

Billy wraps his hands around Steve’s throat.

He relishes the butterfly-wing thrum of his lover’s heartbeat against his fingertips. Steve winces from the chill of those fingers, those hands. He sighs, leaning into the feeling of being swallowed alive. 

Billy's hands are a vice--

Steve stops breathing.

“I can’t,” Billy says flatly. “Not after what happened. Not tonight.”

Steve nods, like the world suddenly makes sense again and while he doesn’t understand how, he respects it. Steve blinks away tears and suddenly, Billy wants to go home.

He takes one step back.

Then two, until Steve grabs his ice pack and scrambles after him, into the passenger side of the Camaro.

The drive across town is silent. 

Billy holds Steve’s hand the whole way, fingers threaded together in his lap while they cry crocodile tears. When the car comes to a thundering, sudden halt in front of Steve’s house, Billy says:

“I’m not breaking up with you.” Because he isn’t. He never would. “I just need space.”

Steve holds on tight, like he’s afraid Billy is lying to him. “How long?”

Through the open window Billy can hear everything. Crickets, the treetops swaying back and forth against three story houses. The familiar, comforting sounds of Hawkins at rest. He’s never really liked this part of town--to large, too lonely. Money does that, he thinks.

Billy likes to stay where Steve can see him. “A week, maybe two.”

Steve scrubs a hand across his face, wincing at the pressure his fingers put against dark purple bruises forming all along his jaw. Billy wishes he could make it better, take the pain away. He can’t, though, so he just settles for:

“You’re my person.”

He hopes it helps, somehow.

Steve avoids his gaze. “Long as you know who you belong to.” He says.

For a moment they sit like that. Holding hands in the darkness; one boy who's afraid to break contact for fear of slipping too far away from the other. Billy opens his mouth to say something, though he doesn’t know _what,_ exactly.

Steve opens his door and climbs out, yanking Billy over the console when he doesn’t unthread their fingers. 

He’s crying. “You’re going to come home to me.” 

It’s not a question. 

“Always,” Billy whispers. Because he means it. “I’m yours.”

Steve nods. “Mine.”

He gives Billy’s hand one final squeeze before releasing him. The door closes with a soft, definite click and Billy sinks against the steering wheel, knuckles white against its worn leather surface. 

Steve taps on the hood of the car and Billy starts the engine, pulling away from the curb.

In the rear view mirror Steve watches him go, a hand pressed against his lips.

It takes every ounce of Billy’s strength to keep driving. He rounds the corner and lets himself cry for what feels like the first time in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are ready for this reunion! I've been working on it for a couple of weeks now, I have so many ideas rolling around in my head.   
> Great suffering equates a happier ending, my dudes.  
> Thanks, as always, for your kindness and support, this has been such a fun fic to work on and you can expect so much more in the future. I can't stop writing these losers.  
> I'm not going to apologize, though. We've adopted Billy.
> 
> (P.S.: The final chapter will likely be a long one, and it will be a mix of both their perspectives. Just a quick heads up, okay ilysm bye)


	7. Sandcastles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost for you, I'm so lost for you.
> 
> Pair this one with:  
> Don't Delete the Kisses, by Wolf Alice

The days pass in a haze of school-work-baking-repeat as Billy tries to keep his head above water. He spends hours in the kitchen with his hands in a mixing bowl and flour on his forehead, trying to focus on anything other than the gaping absence Steve has left in his universe.

Billy’s been waiting for this week to end and for the next to pick up so he can meet with Clara, who’s spending two weeks in Montauk with her family. 

She gave Billy the number to the place she’s staying, a cute little ranch just outside the city. _In case you need to talk,_ she’d said.

He can’t bring himself to use it though. 

The whole thing was his fault, the whole thing was Steve’s--Billy keeps flip-flopping between the two. He needs to get it straight before his meeting with Clara on Tuesday.

She’ll be able to see right through his carefully crafted bullshit, always has.

Max, regrettably, is no different.

“Why don’t you go see him, idiot,” She asks over a slice of home-made cherry tartlette. “I mean, obviously neither of you are happy without the other. Idiots tend to feel that way, hive mind and all that.”

Billy sticks his poppy seed dough in the oven to prove and elects to ignore that last part.

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“Duh, he still picks us up from school,” Max elbows him out of the way and cuts herself a second slice. “Even though _you’ve_ been M.I.A.”

Billy fills the sink with water and starts on his second round of dishes. His habit of Baking To Avoid Feeling has become a real problem; his hands are chapped from the steady tincture of flour, soap, and yeast he’s been slathering over them like a cream.

He makes a mental note to pick up lotion at the market.

“Doubt you nerds have missed me much,” Billy watches Max lick the plate clean. “Or missed me _at all_ , for that matter.”

She hops back to the counter for another slice. The tartlett’s a winner for sure, Billy decides. He opens the cabinet in the corner and files his newest invention under _Max’s Favorites._

All of Billy’s favorite people have a folder. 

He wonders distantly if he’ll ever need to leaf through Steve’s again.

“Will asks about you.” She says.

And fuck. He had meant to follow up after The Talk but, like always, Billy had been too preoccupied with his own shit to think about the needs of others. He pushes the intrusive thoughts away and asks, instead:

“Should have an extra loaf or two, from this batch. Would you wanna take it to school tomorrow, feed those scrawny friends of yours?”

Max scowls. “Sure, give the lavender poppy seed away even though you _know_ that’s my favorite.”

Billy nearly faints at the swell in his chest. Max is a tough nut to crack, when it comes to food. He lets the back-handed compliment go right to his head, like an idiot, and signs himself up for more work.

“Cupcakes, then. Was planning on making a trip to the market later anyway.” 

It’ll give him a chance to make it up to Byers, for not calling. Fags have to stick together, right?

And he could make something for Steve, too.

Kid’s been shit at feeding himself for years now. Billy doubts he’s had a solid meal since that night.

“Are you actually planning on cooking real food this week or should I go to Will’s for dinner?” Max huffs. There’s no heat behind it, though. “Again.”

Billy peeks into the oven and says, with a happy smile: “You just had four slices of Cherry tartlette and, what, you’re still hungry?”

“What can I say,” Max parks herself next to him and gets to work on the dishes. That’s the biggest rule in their house; you eat, you help wash. He’s trained her well. “You bake better than you cook.”

And, that’s true. 

Don’t misunderstand; Billy can throw down in the category of savory, if need be. Like with anything he gives 110% and his flavors are perfect every time, no matter what. Billy won’t settle for anything less and has been known to throw out perfectly “good” dishes if they aren’t restaurant quality.

And that sort of decisiveness has never led him astray. Mrs. Harrington _did_ ask for his modified Shepherd’s pie recipe after Thanksgiving, so. 

Not to brag, or anything. 

“Steve’s the chef.” Billy agrees.

Because he is. Steve’s Crostini could kick the ass of any one of Billy’s sorry little American dishes. Maybe it’s the yeast in the air, maybe it’s the memory of all the Sunday afternoons they spent at Nonna Ruth’s with the intent to learn every family recipe, but Billy feels a flood of tears choke down his throat.

Steve. 

Fuck, Billy misses him.

The moment sort of hangs in the air between them while Billy scrubs the pans and Max dries. Her eyes burn a hole in the side of his face.

“You really can’t forgive him?”

“It’s not that simple,” Billy says too harshly. “I’m supposed to be setting boundaries. Clara says boundaries are--”

 _“Mandatory for creating healthy relationships,_ I know.” Max groans. 

And fuck. 

It’s one thing for Steve to quote Billy’s therapist but Max? He must be a broken record about the whole thing if she’s throwing it back in his face. That kid has trouble remembering her own name, most days. 

Billy can’t bring himself to feel bad about it, though. Because:

“I did a lot of work to get here.” He says.

Max nods. She knows, probably better than anyone else, how far Billy has come in the last two years. Billy today versus Billy when they first moved to Hawkins is like comparing summer and winter. 

He’s become unrecognizable.

She’s mentioned before, in passing, how proud she is of him for the progress he’s made.

Billy had nodded his head and quickly changed the subject because neither of them are good at Feelings. When shit gets too heavy they change the subject, they distract; Max skates and Billy bakes until his fingers rot off. 

No amount of therapy can change the root of who they are.

Billy and Max are an anomaly. Step Siblings but more like twins; they have a freaky sort of communication between them, an unspoken bond that transcends all mundane shit like having to explain oneself. 

They don’t have to make excuses or apologize to each other or talk about _it,_ anything, not if they don’t want to. 

And they never want to.

So he isn’t expecting it when Max says, softly; “You make me want to be better.”

Billy watches the water circle the drain, tears choking down his throat all over again. “Um,” He tries. They stare forward, out the window and across the alleyway to where Mrs. Hendrickson sits in front of her T.V. “Thanks, kid.”

He moves to peak into the oven, just for something to do.

Max keeps going. “I never, uh. I never said--”

“Look, we don’t have to--”

 _“Thank you,_ Billy.” She groans, almost like the words are being yanked out of her. “I just. You always protect me. You’re a father and a mother. My brother, too, and I just.”

She takes a deep breath. “It happened against my will, but. You’re my best friend.”

Billy stares into the oven, hyper aware of her knees against the cabinet next to him. He can feel her gaze burning through his scalp and he just. Has to talk about it. 

Max is a kid.

She doesn’t understand what Billy’s done--all the therapy and working full time, getting a degree and cooking dinner every night, driving her around and making sure she has everything she needs--is just what family _does._

That’s just what Billy’s supposed to do.

“You’re my sister.” He says thickly. “Stuck lookin’ out for you, shitbird.”

By some small miracle Max snorts and the tension melts away, thawing Billy’s frozen bones so he can stand and shuffle around the kitchen. He avoids her eyes, though. 

Still feels exposed. 

Max does too, apparently. She shrugs her shoulders. “I’m stuck looking out for you, too.”

Billy hates how easily he cries these days.

“Call Steve.” She says.

It’s not his intention to cut things short; this shoddy attempt at a heart-to-heart is probably long overdue but if Billy doesn’t smoke a cigarette soon he’s going to evaporate.

“Need anything from the store?” He asks roughly, reaching to yank his shopping bags from under the kitchen sink. 

“Billy,” She says again. He forces himself to look up, into her eyes. “Talk to him. I know you’re trying to establish boundaries and I’m proud of you, it’s just.”

Max fills a glass with water and drinks the whole thing in one big gulp, clearly searching for the right words. Billy wishes he could tell her that she doesn’t have to worry. That she can say _whatever_ she wants to him and it wouldn’t change anything. 

They’re family. 

He just stands there, though, wringing the bags like they’re all wet from the rain.

Finally, she sighs. “Steve isn’t Neil. Whatever happened, he didn’t.” Max finally looks into his eyes. “You know he didn’t mean it.”

“How can you expect me to take that chance?” He snaps. Old habits die hard, you might say. “I can’t let someone like that take up space in my life again. In _our_ life. Maxine, I.” 

Billy takes a deep breath. “It’s not just me, anymore. It’s you, too, alright. You’re my sister, I. I have to think about you.” 

“Steve isn’t abusive,” She spits back. Just as harsh, just as lethal. “I don’t know what happened between you, but--”

“Exactly right. That’s it, you got it. You don’t know what happened.”

 _“But,”_ Max says tightly. “I do know people deserve a second chance.”

He remembers that morning over breakfast. 

Neil and his fist, Max’s perpetually rosy cheeks drained of color. Billy had had to physically restrain himself from taking someone’s life that day.

He wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

He’d do anything for Max. Including putting space between himself and the love of his life if it meant keeping her out of harm's way, even if being away from Steve is worse than death.

_I gave you a second chance._

She doesn’t say the words but they hang there like that anyway, swaying in the air like that, while Billy tries to find his footing on a shaky argument. 

He comes up with a response a second too late. 

Max shoulders past him on her way to the living room and says; “You can pick up more Cheetos at the store. Maybe some Orange juice, too. We could use more vitamin C in our diets.” 

Billy slips his coat on and wonders when Max grew up.

\--

“Yeah, but I think it’s, like, _vital_ that you consider what his love language is. While yours could be quality time or words of affirmation, maybe Billy’s is acts of service. Always have to keep that in mind because not everybody speaks the same language.” Robin rolls the die and points at the board. “Okay, so you can either--”

“What does that mean.” Steve interjects. _“Love language._ Everyone keeps _saying_ that like I paid attention in health class, which. I didn’t.”

Dustin rolls his eyes. “It’s supposed to represent how you understand love.”

Steve blinks at him. “So, language is that. Is that like...English? Or something?”

“Oh my god, you’re hopeless,” Robin chortles. “A _love language,_ Steve.” There’s that phrase again. “Everybody’s got one. Mine is quality time--”

“And mine is acts of service,” Dustin says.

If a fourteen year old is more emotionally intelligent than Steve, who is a grown man with a savings account and _car insurance,_ for Christ-sake--he’s in more trouble than he originally thought.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, so. Billy’s love language is acts of mercy--”

“Acts of _service,_ Dingus--”

“Yeah, okay.” Steve reasons. _“That._ So this whole time he was trying to say it. But he couldn’t because he didn’t...realize that our languages might be, like, different?”

Dustin grins at him. “You got it, buddy.”

Steve needs a cigarette.

“Yeah, okay.” He says again. Steve has always been like this; easy-going, malleable. He has no trouble learning and re-learning things on a case-by-case basis and Love?

It’s never been his strong suit so he tries to be flexible. 

He loves Billy so much. Too much, he thinks sometimes, and all that happiness has made him a little bit crazy. 

“I guess I never thought about it, like that.” He says. “Guess I just thought we were beyond needing to talk it over. Thought we didn’t have to fight about it anymore.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “It’s not like Billy’s the most emotionally mature person on the planet.”

Steve tries not to get defensive. He fails. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Relax, Dingus, I’m not slandering your beloved. I just meant that he’s had to work hard at learning his own feelings first,” Robin says, almost bored. “You can’t expect him to learn yours so quickly _and_ read your mind on top of it.”

Dustin nods. “You _do_ expect that, man.”

Steve stares at him, incredulous. 

So, okay. Maybe he’s expected a lot from Billy since they got together last year. Maybe, if he had been paying attention, he would have noticed what was right in front of him.

Billy driving him to class, Billy taking care of him when he’s sick, Billy always putting a sweater in the dryer for him so it’s warm when he comes home from work in the afternoons.

It’s so clear Steve almost walks into traffic for being so ignorant about the whole thing:

Billy Hargrove is in love with him. 

It’s fucking obvious, but Steve’s slower than most so he crushed the feeling in his fists and drove Billy away, which isn’t an impossible feat. Billy wasn’t always so calm, so patient. Billy used to run. Steve’s skittish little muffin, he thinks fondly.

“What about my love language, though?” Steve would deny that it came out as a whine. “How do I know what mine is?”

Dustin clambers down the stairs, three sodas in hand. “I’d say quality time, if I had to guess.” He studies Steve’s face, pokes his eyelid. 

Steve smacks his hand away but it doesn’t faze him because of course not. “Maybe words of affirmation, because of your freak out.”

Steve chokes on his spit.

Robin cackles, like a witch. He makes a note to tease her about it later. 

“I did _not have.”_ Steve has to stop himself because it’s a lie. “Okay. I did freak out. Probably ruined our relationship forever or something.” He says glumly. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he never speaks to me again.”

“He _will,”_ Dustin assures, ever the perfect best friend.

Robin, on the other hand, snorts. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Steve stares at her. She takes the hint and tries to backtrack. “I’m just saying! You were kind of an asshole.”

She fails miserably.

“Some friend you are,” Steve retorts. But, again; Robin says nothing if not the truth. “So what now? What do I do, how do I fix this?”

Robin and Dustin look at each other and then at him, clearly annoyed.

“What?” Steve asks.

Dustin frowns. “Robin and I, we--”

“You gotta stop now, buddy.” Robin says quickly. “We’ve listened to you talk about this for days and it hasn’t gotten us anywhere.”

“We’re your friends, Steve, but. This whole situation is a little above our level of expertise.” Dustin says.

And Steve’s confused. 

“What are you saying?”

Robin leans across the table, threading their fingers together. 

“Maybe you should go see a therapist.” Steve starts to protest, to yank his hand away and complain about how _clearly_ she can see him but Robin doesn’t give him the chance. _“Just_ until you figure out how to mend things with Billy.”

He shakes his head, grinning tightly “But I don’t need a therapist, I have you guys!”

“Robin’s never even had a girlfriend and Suzie and I are perfect,” Dustin starts.

Robin nods. “It’s like the blind leading the blind.”

Steve looks into the eyes of his two best friends in the whole world and, finally, acknowledges what he never could: this whole thing is his fault. He lets go of Robin’s hand and cracks a soda, gulping until his throat burns. After a few seconds he breathes in through his nose sharply and nods.

“Okay. Therapy.” He says.

“Fucking _finally.”_ Robin points to the board, ever the aggressive DM. “Can we get back to the game now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and YES I upped the count AGAIN because I am a CLOWN.  
> I didn't want to rush the ending, so. Just a couple more thousand words and this thing will finally be put to bed!  
> Or...? Nah, I'm just yankin' your chain.  
> ...unless?


	8. And I Really Love You, You Should Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> that I would never, never, never, never, never, never let you go before I go.
> 
> Pair this one with:  
> Before I Let Go, by Beyoncé
> 
> Some feel-good jams to play at the end of a long, emotional ride.
> 
> The song used in this chapter is:  
> Heavenly Day, by Patty Griffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you enough for your support on this fic. It's been such a joy to write and I hope to continue producing (half decent) content for you guys.  
> We're all friends, now.  
> Deal with it!

Clara’s more...forgiving about the whole situation than Billy thought she would be. When he finally makes it in for a meeting (on Friday _._ He’s been distraught and sick with nerves for nearly a whole _week_ ) she immediately hands him a cigarette and tells him to _Spill the Beans._

Bizarre wording for someone in their sixties, but.

Billy spills his guts right there on the baby-blue carpet anyway. And she listens. All the way through, without interruption, until Billy is pale and clammy and breathing hard from the sheer weight of it all.

He opens his mouth to conclude that he knows this signals the end.

That he’ll have to call Steve up in a few days and rip off the band aid, taking all the skin of his heart with it. Billy knows--understands--the personal responsibility he has to himself and Maxine to keep people _like that_ out of their lives. He fucking, gets it, alright, but.

All of it will leave him in shambles.

Broken. Weak. 

Billy won’t ever recover from losing someone so important. 

Clara listens until he declares that he _knows_ what’s best for them. And then she crushes the butt of her cigarette and throws a wad of tissue right at his head.

Like an asshole. 

“Fuckin’-- _watch it,_ grandma.” He deadpans. 

Clara lights another cigarette, jaw working around the insult. “I’m gonna ignore that one, honey. Just this once, since you’re clearly in so much pain.” She chuckles at the expression on Billy’s clammy face.

“You’re laughing.” He can’t believe this. “I just told you the love of my life put his fucking _hands_ on me and you’re laughing.”

“Well, when you put it like that.” Clara says solemnly. Billy winces as her kind eyes search his face, peeling back layer after layer of defense. “Is that what you want?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Think if you started crying about it like I did it’d make it too real.”

Clara nods.

She understands him. Billy doesn’t have to pretend and that’s. 

He’s grateful for it.

Billy watches the cherry of her cigarette ash against the rim of an empty mug. Her office is constantly littered with dirty, half empty mugs of coffee and while Billy sometimes feels like taking a trash bag to the place it’s comforting. 

Feels like some sort of study quacks do, making their patients the guinea pigs. 

Clara tucks one arm across her chest. “And leaving Steve. What did Max have to say about that?”

“This it’s fucking stupid. Says I should call him, give him another chance.”

“Alright.” Clara nods again. Like a bobblehead. “I’m gonna have to go off record, for a spell. Maybe get a little too honest?”

Billy’s leg starts bouncing up and down.

Clara grins. “Alright, kid.” She says. Her arms cross tightly over her chest which means Billy’s in for it. Really in for it, this time. “I think I’m going to have to agree with Max, on this one.”

And that.

“Huh?” Billy asks dumbly.

“You heard what I said, William. This whole thing with Steve--I’ve seen the two of you together. For months.” Clara nods her head again, like the whole thing was obvious. Like it was to be expected, or something. “He hops around in these little crop tops and drops you off at therapy and asks follow up questions--”

“He asks about me?”

Soft eyes stare back at him. “Steve’s a hands-on partner, kid. The most I’ve seen him do to step out of line is give me a call after you leave from a hard session.”

“You guys talk?” Billy still doesn’t understand. 

“Yes.”

“About me?”

Clara snorts. “What else? The weather?”

And Billy doesn’t know what to _do_ with that. “I thought our sessions were confidential.” He thinks back to all the shit he’s said about Max. And Neil. The times he’s wept about the things he did to Lucas and Dustin and.

Billy starts to shake. “You _said_ I could trust you.”

“Relax, short stop, I don’t tell Steve anything that could compromise your or all the progress you’ve made.” Clara leans forward, elbows to knees. “Word of advice?”

Billy nods. Because what else is there to do.

“He cares about you. Steve crossed a major line, which I’m sure he already knows given your history with physicality, but I've been a therapist for thirty years and I've never seen anything like it. Steve beats himself up over things. Figuratively _and_ literally. So. I don’t think you need to worry about whether he’s sorry. I’m sure he’s already taking the proper steps to--”

“Advice, Clara," Billy teases. "Before I get old like you.”

That earns him a grin. And another tissue to the head. 

Clara stares at him with those soft, soupy green eyes.

“Maybe forgive him.” She says. "Move forward with caution, obviously, but. Everyone deserves a second chance."

And yeah.

Billy’s stuck at a crossroads.

\--

Steve’s perched at the front desk when Billy stumbles out from Clara’s office. He’s chatting with Marian, like always, animated and lively and fucking _adorable._ All wrapped up in a little green sweater and a pair of Billy’s sweatpants, the ones he’s been looking for since February.

They look better on Steve, anyway, but Billy can't focus on that around the searing anger in his throat.

So typical of Steve to show up like this. Somewhere he knew Billy'd be. 

Somewhere sacred.

Of course he'd capitalize on Billy's vulnerability, push him toward burying the hatchet when he’s not ready to go there yet. When Billy’s worked hard to make it clear that he doesn’t _want_ to talk, not even over the phone, not even through letter--

Which, _yes,_ he's gotten a few letters in the mail. Steve obviously thinks the most efficient mode of communication is through the goddamn Pony Express.

Billy swallows against the nerves in his stomach. Thinks about turning around, hiding behind the desk until Steve leaves, but.

Billy isn't going to be convinced.

And sure, maybe Steve just looks cute, too, with his hands are waving all over the place. Gesturing here, yanking through his wavy dark mane there and fuck.

Billy _misses_ Steve.

The curves and valleys of that voice chewing his ear off. Those hands moving in and around and through him, caressing all the tender pieces and putting Billy back together again, but--

“What the fuck are you doing here, Harrington?”

Steve startles. “Billy, uh,” Steve peaks over his shoulder at Marian, cheeks flushing red as he tugs nervously at the hem of his sweater. “What, um. What are you doing here?”

“Uh, I have therapy, dumbass. Every Tuesday and Thursday, remember?”

“Yeah, but--”

Billy closes this distance between them. He can feel his nostrils flaring, the heat trickling through his veins urging him to _hit kill bite bruise._ He ignores it. 

“But _nothing,”_ He says through clenched teeth. “I’m not ready to talk yet. Why would you show up here, are you trying to ambush--”

“It’s Friday, Billy.” Marian says. 

He stares at her, incredulous. “What?”

Her cheeks darken but in a way so distinctly separate from Steve. Like the gruffness of his voice is doing things to her, getting under her skin and lighting a fire. 

Driving her crazy. 

“It’s Friday,” She practically moans under the weight of his stare. “Steve’s here because you usually come in on Thursday--”

_“Thanks--”_

“So. Yeah.” She finishes. 

Billy turns his attention back to Steve. “If you aren’t here to see me, then why are you here?” He searches that cherub face. Those milky brown eyes, those pretty pink lips. He wants to kiss Steve, now.

Fuck, he wanted to kiss Steve _yesterday._ All week, over and over again until their mouths are bruised and bloody. 

That mouth opens to speak, and--

“Steve’s here for an appointment with Dr. Carlisle.” Marian prattles. “I guess something happened and he decided to--”

“Thanks, Marian, could you um.” Steve smiles thinly. “Could you give us some privacy? Just for a minute.”

She does. 

He feels like an asshole for expecting the worst of him. Billy reminds himself, for what feels like the millionth time, that Steve isn't Neil.

Billy exhales. “Therapy?” 

“Yeah, uh. I kinda realized some stuff? Well, Dustin and Robin realized some stuff and then sort of beat me over the head with it, um.” His voice is shaking. Eyes pooling sweetly under the warm low of the lights. “I’m _so fucking--"_

“Stevie--”

He jerks his head, then. Eyes going right through Billy like the tongs in a hole punch. “No, just. I already said it before. That night and then later and then a _bunch_ of times after that. Over and over to myself when you don’t answer the phone or when I can’t sleep without you, but.”

Billy’s heart squeezes painfully. The thought of Steve staring at the wall, curled up on his side when the nightmares make it impossible to grasp at peace, leaves him in tatters.

Instantly he wants this part to be over.

Steve licks his lips. “I crossed a line.” He says. 

“Yeah. You did.”

"And I’ll never expect you to forgive me, Billy. I’ll never push you or chase you around, not if you don't want me to, but I--” He breaks off, eyes flitting momentarily to Billy's lips. “I want to be better. _Do_ better, for myself and like. Anyone else who comes along.”

 _You._ His eyes say. _I want to do better for you._

Billy knows the feeling. He opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ before his heart closes up again, but. He doesn’t get the chance.

Marian rounds the corner. “Steve, the doctor will see you now.” He waves.

“Well, I guess I’ll um.” Steve swallows thickly. Billy’s eyes follow the movement all the way home. “I’ll see you around. The kids, and all that, um.”

Billy nods.

Steve’s eyes are shining again. “Catch you later, Bills.”

And then he’s gone.

So, yeah.

Billy’s stuck at a crossroads.

\--

He bakes a three tier cake on Friday afternoon.

And a roast chicken Friday night.

And mini quiches on Saturday morning for breakfast. El has three, Max eats the rest. He has to make two trips to the store for supplies and by Sunday night all his spending money has been devoured by his addiction. 

Doesn’t matter. He needs to work some shit out of his system.

So, Billy spends all of Sunday slaving over the stove. Blasting _Fiona Apple_ and crying into his mixing bowl like a lunatic. He knocks on all his neighbors doors and offers whatever they want to take--crème puffs, pot roasts, cookies, cakes, even homemade granola for the health nut across the hall.

Max pops in once or twice to taste things and complain about all the traffic in the house which just makes Billy feel trapped.

Desperate, like he’s stuck in a time loop on a really shitty competition baking show. Doesn’t matter, he’s almost stopped crying by the time the sun sets. It’s the start of a new week, which means the kids are playing DnD and it’s Max's turn to host. 

Sunday night DnD means Steve will drive carpool. 

It means he might get tired and sleep over when the brats inevitably decided to watch Star Wars all night and totally ruin their chances of learning anything the next day at school. For once, Billy’s actually okay with it.

The warmth in his belly inching dangerously close to _excited_ at the thought of having people in the house again.

The phone rings right as Billy’s mixing a batch of butterscotch cupcakes. He swears and shuffles to the fridge, sticks the bowl of frosting gingerly on the rack, and sets his kitchen timer for a soft ten minutes.

One second longer and the mixture will curd.

He picks up on the third ring. “This better not be a fucking telemarketer. I’m right in the middle of a really complicated recipe, so--”

“Hi, is this Billy Hargrove?”

Sea turtles. Sunscreen kisses under the boardwalk. 

Sydney.

Billy’s heart stops beating.

“Hi, yeah, this is, uh.” He wipes his hands on a towel. Rough, bruising, like he’s never done it before. “This is Billy.”

“You probably don’t remember me, but--”

“No, I. Sydney. I remember.” Billy says.

“I hope you don’t mind, I got your number from Neil--”

Billy wants to throw up. “You. You called that asshole?”

“Like I said. Hope you don’t mind, I just um--”

Billy tries to let it go. “God. Been a minute. What’s it been now, three--four years?” His voice sounds tinny, stock full of forced relaxation. “How’ve you been?”

Sydney chuckles. “Good, I’m uh. Listen, sorry to bother you like this I just.” Silence. Billy feels his heart beating in his ass, for Christ-sake. “I’m getting married and I--”

“Oh, wow. That’s. Congratulations, that’s uh.” He leans against the wall, praying for this conversation to end. He has to know: “Who’s the lucky guy?”

More silence. 

When Sydney speaks again his voice is shaking. “Billy. Listen, I’m kind of--”

Max skips around the corner and flings the fridge door open, immediately releasing all the cool air. That shocks Billy back to life; he snaps his fingers to get her attention, mouthing _I’ll fucking cut you_ when she sticks her finger into the bag to taste the frosting.

Max flips him off and stalks back to the living room.

Sydney’s saying something but it’s all muffled. Billy can’t hear him so he brings the receiver back to his head. “You gotta slow down, I can’t. What did you say?”

Sydney takes a deep breath. “I’m kind of getting married. Today. Or, I was.”

Billy’s confused. “Sorry; why are you calling me?” He tries to keep his voice even, neutral. “I mean, not that I’m not. Glad to hear from you, I guess, it’s just. Is everything…?”

“I’m at the train station.”

The floor drops out from under him. 

“What.”

The front door slams open just then, every fourteen year old in the world hollering fucking _immediately_ regardless of Steve’s threat to _use your inside voices, assholes._

Sydney on the beach. Sydney on the pier. Sydney with his hands down Billy’s pants, his lips attached to his neck. Sydney at the train station--

He’s at the train station.

Billy wraps the phone cord around his hand and tries not to panic. He can hear Steve moving through the tiny living room, around the hustle and bustle, searching as he calls out _Billy? You here?_

“I’m. I need to see you.” Sydney says from worlds away.

“No, you.” Billy feels like he’s underwater. “You don’t get to do this. Not after you left me on the fucking _pier_ for your goddamn scholarship, I.” He shakes his head. The footsteps come to a stop right outside the kitchen but Billy doesn’t care.

He’s so angry his blood is boiling. 

Singing, _hollering_ into the night sky. 

“Fuck you, Sydney. You show up here and I’m chopping your goddamn balls off.”

“Wait, Billy--” 

He hangs up the phone. It takes a few seconds to figure out how to move his legs. Steve comes in somewhere in the middle of that, eyes shining just like that afternoon in the office. 

He folds his arms across his chest. “So. That was Sydney.”

Billy nods. 

"Let me guess. He was dragging your heart around for, what the million time?"

Billy nods again.

That’s all he can do, just nod. If he’s being honest with himself some part of him had been waiting to hear those words. The _I love you’s_ and the _take me backs_ from his first great love.Thinks maybe he hasn’t given all of himself to the brown eyed boy in front of him.

Thinks maybe he was holding back.

And Billy feels like shit for realizing it so late. On a boring, cool Sunday evening. After the worst week of his life. After the best year of his life, too, after being in a relationship with the boy of his fucking _dreams._ He’s been hung up. Billy wants to jump out the window at the realization, but.

Steve just steps closer. “I felt that way about Nancy, you know. For a long time after we broke up.”

“I don’t.” Billy’s lips won’t move beyond those vowels and consonants. He feels his arms shaking. 

Steve nods. “You don’t ever forget your first. Love, I mean. Uh.” He seems to be just as lost as Billy. “Shouldn’t beat yourself up over how you feel. A small part of you will always love him, but.”

It’s comforting.

Steve reaches out and touches him. “Save some for the next, okay?”

Billy’s crying. “I said I wasn’t. _Stevie,_ I’m not leaving--”

“I know.” He says thickly. “I just came by to drop the kids off, I’ll. I’m coming back in the morning. We can talk then?” 

Steve brushes his fingertips against Billy’s cheek, wiping gently at his tears. Billy leans into it without thinking, relishing Steve’s breath as it hitches in his throat.

“Yeah,” He whispers. “We can. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Steve kisses his forehead.

And then he’s gone.

\--

Billy locks himself in his room after that. The kids are screaming in the living room, this particular campaign full of blood of gore and shit Billy usually wouldn’t allow, but.

At least someone’s having a good night.

Steve left and Billy ignored two more calls from Sydney before he made the announcement; _I’m going to bed, shit birds. Knock on my door or make a sound and it’s your funeral._

They rolled their eyes, of course, always challenging. Always pushing. The only one who seemed moved by the threat was Will.

Which made Billy feel like shit, but. 

What else is new?

He’s lifting weights in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips when the kid sticks his head in the room. Billy grunts.

“Go away.”

“I just wanted to--”

“I said get lost, kid.” Billy lights another cigarette, uncomfortable in his sweaty t-shirt. “Not in the mood, don’t wanna hurt your feelings.”

And Will gets that pissy little look on his face again. “I’m not a little kid, you know. You don’t scare me.” He steps through into the room and closes the door against the sound of another rousing battle with King whatever-the-fuck.

Billy stares at him. “Maybe you should be scared.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.” Will says as he sits gingerly on the bed, looking every bit like Billy at thirteen. Nervous and gangly and so fucking awkward.

Ballsy, too. 

And fuck, he’s goddamn _right._ Billy wouldn’t hurt a fly, not anymore. He grabs a set of free weights and says, “What do you want, then?”

Will picks at the bed spread. “Are you and Steve broken up?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Like you guys together,” the boy says simply. Like it’s obvious. He looks at Billy through worried eyes. “You kind of complete each other.”

And that earns him a snort.

Billy drops the weight onto its rack and lopes over to the window. The night air is cool, like a gentle caress against his heated skin. “I’d never leave him.”

Will somehow materializes in the space next to him. “Then how come you haven’t been hanging out as much?” Billy feels those eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, which he ignores. “If you don’t want to leave him why--”

“Listen, this is like. Grown up fag shit, okay? You wouldn’t understand.”

Will folds his arms across his chest. “Is it like what you said before? About people growing apart.”

Billy grits his teeth. “Not exactly.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“We got into a fight,” Billy’s stupid mouth says. “A physical fight, we. Look, it’s not important.”

He moves to the weight rack again, irritated when Will follows close behind like a lost puppy. Billy doesn’t remember when Byers became his shadow. 

“You’ve gotten into fights before.” Will says.

Billy pumps his arms, _up down, up down,_ relishing the sting. 

“At my house, remember?” Will continues.

Billy glances sideways at him. “Yeah, so?”

 _“So_ why is this time different?”

“Because we’re in love this time, asshole,” Billy snarls. “If you love someone you aren’t supposed to hurt them like that, okay? That's rule fucking _one.”_

Will stares at him for an endless, agonizing moment. Billy stares back; no way he’s letting this kid pull one over on him. 

Finally, Byers speaks. “Mike hit me one time.” 

And that throws Billy off. “What?”

“Yeah, we were fighting. About El and Max and just, _everything.”_ He looks down at the floor. “Mike knows I don’t like girls that way. He’s been real nice about it too, but. I told him I have a crush on him and all he could talk about was El. How he loves her and how if she knew it could ruin their relationship.”

Billy never wanted to kill a fourteen year old more in his entire life.

Will keeps talking. “Anyway. I told him I love him, that I always have and then I went in for a kiss.” It’s obvious how hard this is for him. Billy tries to give his full attention. “He pushed me off and. I told him I didn’t want to be friends anymore, that it was too painful, so. He punched me.”

Billy reels, shaking like a leaf right there in his bedroom.

“That’s fucked up.” He says lamely.

Will chuckles once, without humor. “Yeah.”

“Why are you still friends with that dick?” Billy lights another cigarette. He’s gonna make it through the whole pack, by the looks of it. “If he treated you like that, I mean?”

Will shrugs. “Mike has always been there for me. Taken care of me, put me back together. One shitty thing doesn’t erase all the good ones.”

_Huh._

Billy sucks his cigarette all the way down to its filter and blows smoke out his nose. So Byers has a brain after all, he thinks fondly. 

A brain better than the one in Billy’s head, that’s for sure.

He grins. “So. Mike Wheeler, huh?”

Will’s face goes beetroot. “Shut up,” He says.

And Billy Does.

\--

He can’t sleep.

It’s one thirty in the _goddamn_ morning and even the brats are asleep, all curled up on Billy’s extra blankets and pillow, boys on one side of the room, will and the girls on the other. 

Billy’s kind of a stick in the mud, okay?

He punches his pillow into shape and shuffles Will’s words around in his head: _one shitty thing doesn’t erase all the good ones._

There have been shittiy things.

Fights and disagreements. Broken promises. The way they butt heads and Steve goes silent when he’s angry and closes off like a road under construction. He gets upset when he’s bored. His impatience with everything is insatiable; from food to travel to the big, important moments in life.

 _Steve_ is insatiable, always demanding more. He loves like a burning fire and, yeah. Shitty thing.

There have been a lot of good things, too. 

Like Steve’s earnestness, his bravery and heart. The way he always wakes up from sleep and stares grumpily around the room before cuddling against Billy’s side. How he shakes his hips when the food is good. His incessant laughter when they watch movies. How he watches Billy, too, to make sure he’s having fun. The way he is with the kids, the way he is with _everyone._

So kind. So sweet and soft and perfect.

Billy’s never had anyone care about him like that.

Steve loves gently. He’s insatiable and he’s always demanding more, but. He loves with his whole heart. Good thing.

Everything about Steve is a double edged sword. He has Billy thinking about the future, hoping that they’ll end up with four kids and a minivan. It’s terrifying; when Billy inevitably runs out of things to give Steve will disappear and Billy won’t survive it.

Someday Steve will disappear.

Before Billy registers the movement he’s throwing the blankets off and getting dressed. Leafing through his cassette rack, grabbing his stereo from its spot on the shelf. And then he’s thundering through the living room and down to the Camaro, hopping behind the wheel and tearing onto Hazel Street.

Someday Steve will disappear and Billy can’t let that happen.

\--

So that’s how he ends up in Steve’s backyard with a stereo above his head.

It’s late.

And the neighborhood is dead silent.

And it’s fucking freezing, Billy’s toes are likely blue as he sways back and forth to the music on the dewy lawn. The stereo isn’t too loud because the last thing he needs is some snooty-rich-fuck calling the cops on him.

Steve hasn’t opened his window, yet.

Hasn’t even turned his goddamn light on so Billy inches the volume up until the song clicks and starts over.

_ Oh, heavenly day-- _

_ All the clouds blew away. Got no trouble today with anyone… _

Is gonna have to sing? How fucking loud does this thing have to be?

Billy cranks the volume higher and waits impatiently for sleeping beauty to come to the goddamn window and let down his hair or some shit.

_ The smile on your face, I live only to see. It's enough for me, baby, it's enough for me--Oh, heavenly day, heavenly day, heavenly day. _

The light finally flicks on. 

Billy sees Steve’s shadow moving around, cast long and gangly against the wall and his heart leaps into his fucking throat.

Instantly he’s crying.

Instantly he wants to say it.

_ Tomorrow may rain with sorrow, here's a little time we can borrow _

_ Forget all our troubles in these moments so few-- _

_ Oh because right now is only thing that all that we really have to do _

_ Is have ourselves, a heavenly day… _

And then Steve’s there.

Confused, at first, rumpled and pink with sleep until Billy starts walking forward and his hand goes to cover his mouth.

_ Lay here and watch the trees sway. _

_ Oh, can't see no other way, no way, no way _

_ Heavenly day, heavenly day, heavenly day… _

“This was the fruitiest song I could find,” Billy says thickly. Steve lets out a choked laugh. Billy nearly collapses as he’s overcome with the feeling. “Steve--”

He begins thickly. 

Steve puts a hand out and climbs out the window and down the tree. He shivers in his pajamas, bare feet crunching the grass as he walks forward. His hair is flat on one side and he has pillow creases on his face and he’s never been so beautiful.

Breathtaking.

Billy puts the stereo on the ground. 

“I love you, Steve Harrington.” He says.

Steve makes a noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob as Billy shakes his head and keeps going. Because it’s overdue.

They both know it is.

_ Got nothing to tell you, I've got nothing much to say _

_ Only I'm glad to be here with you on this heavenly, heavenly, heavenly, heavenly day… _

“You smell like cinnamon oatmeal and I like the way you dog-ear books instead of using a card. Makes ‘em feel lived in. Cherished. And I love how you don’t care about whether things are pretty. Or free. Or Whole,” Billy’s feet carry him forward until he’s close enough to see the tears in Steve’s eyes. “You love me even though I’m a shitty work in progress and. I love you so much, Stevie.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak.

“Loved you so much for so long,” Billy quotes, relishing the gentle smile that spreads itself across his lover’s face. He grins back. “It’s kind of pathetic, how much I love you.”

Steve puts his arms around Billy’s neck. “Thanks for saying it, baby.”

Billy decides, right then, that he never wants to fight with anyone else.  _ Love _ anyone else for the rest of his life. 

Couldn’t.

Not when he has everything he could ever need as Steve puts his head in the crook of his shoulder and they start swaying to the music. Just holding each other in the frigid night air. 

His entire universe is so much better with the smell of cinnamon oatmeal and dog-eared books. Complete.

The song starts over.

_ The smile on your face, I live only to see _

_ It's enough for me, baby, it's enough for me _

_ Oh, heavenly day. _


End file.
